y 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"SON" 


"SON 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK 

1911 


Copyright, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1911 


TO    SON 


LIBRARY 


CONTENTS 

"SON" I 

JIM 33 

THE  LITTLE  CLOWN 59 

TOM       89 

NILS 121 

BILL 151 

THE  OUTLAW 185 

COUSIN  LEMUEL 221 

THE  REFLEX       259 


"  SON  " 


"SON 


FATHER  was  a  person  who  occasionally 
just  before  bedtime  emerged  from  a 
place  called  "  Down  Town  "  and  interrupted 
Son's  mental  activities  by  inviting  the  latter 
to  ride  on  his  shoulders.  Now  Son  was  by 
nature  polite,  and  hated  to  disappoint,  but 
if  Father  had  only  realized  the  horror  .  .  . 
to  look  down  and  down  at  those  dizzying 
stairs.  .  .  . 

"  He  will  never  be  manly,"  said  Father. 

Yet,  the  year  before,  when  the  doctor,  being 
warned  of  Mother,  had  intimated  that  it  would 
be  necessary  to  hurt  him,  Son  had  stiffened 
his  little  frame  and  had  let  him  go  ahead. 
And  the  dark  held  for  him  only  delight.  His 
little  room,  where  he  slept  alone,  was  his 
great  pride.  The  light  out,  the  photograph 
of  Hofmann's  Christ  over  his  head  seemed  to 
merge  into  the  colored  lithographs  of  Venice 
3 


«  Son " 

adorning  the  other  walls,  and  above  the  blue 
waters,  out  of  blue  skies,  looked  down  the 
Face.  Son,  half  asleep,  was  wont  to  rouse 
himself  from  this  ecstatic  vision  to  make 
poetry,  which  he  would  repeat  next  morning 
to  any  one  who  could  be  got  to  listen.  There 
was  much  of  starry  skies,  and  silent  night, 
and  the  majesty  of  God  in  these  lines, 
which  were  in  blank  verse,  —  for  Son  was 
only  six. 

"  He  talk  all  de  time  outdoors,"  complained 
his  nurse,  — "  so  much  dat  before  he  get 
home  he  ask  for  a  glass  of  water  already." 

The  family  did  not  go  to  church,  but  Son 
got  over  this  difficulty  by  holding  service 
himself  every  Sunday  morning.  Baby  at 
tended  regularly,  but  Mother  found  it  out 
quite  by  chance  when  she  heard  "  Onward, 
Christian  Soldiers  "  taking  its  turn  impartially 
with  "  When  we  fit  for  General  Grant." 

Father,   who    wielded    a   facile   pen,    had 

brought  home  a  dummy  copy  of  his  new  book. 

It  contained,  beside  title  page  and  table  of 

contents,  untold  wealth  of  blank  pages.     This 

4 


"Son" 

treasure  fell  to  the  lot  of  Son,  who  had  pre 
viously  used  up  every  scrap  of  paper  in  the 
house.  Even  the  rolls  wrapped  about  ribbon 
had  been  fed  out,  a  sacrifice  to  his  insatiable 
industry.  Now,  in  his  own  room,  he  went 
to  work,  and  every  sheet  was  soon  covered 
with  drawings.  These  were  in  regular  series, 
each  ending  with  a  colophon.  Occasionally 
Son,  being  brought  down  to  the  drawing- 
room,  was  asked  to  exhibit  his  book.  One 
day,  on  the  knees  of  a  distinguished  musician, 
he  explained  it  artlessly  for  nearly  an  hour. 
The  visitor's  arm  stole  round  him,  and  the 
two  heads  bent  in  deep  absorption  over  the 
paper.  Son's  clear  voice,  full  of  its  subject, 
kept  on  and  on,  the  words  tumbling  over 
each  other  in  his  eagerness :  "  There's  the 
fire-engine  —  and  here  are  the  ladders  —  and 
there  the  house  is  burning  —  and  they're 
going  up  and  up  —  and  now  they've  put  the 
fire  out  perkefly  well." 

The  visitor   left,  and    Son  sat  down  in  a 
corner  with  magazines.     For  a  long  time  he 
paid  no  attention  to  the  conversation  of  hia 
5 


"Son" 

family,  but  then  an  unusual  note  in  Father's 
voice  struck  his  unheeding  ears  and  made 
him  wriggle  uneasily. 

"What's  the  use?"  Father  was  saying 
fretfully.  "  I'm  not  making  a  success  of 
anything,  neither  literature  nor  law.  I  be 
lieve  I'll  give  it  all  up  and  go  into  farming  — 
or  a  ranch.  How  would  you  like  to  live  on 
a  ranch  ?  " 

Mother  adjusted  the  ruffles  of  her  pretty 
tea-gown.  Son  enjoyed  the  soft  "  frou-frou  " 
made  by  the  flowing  sleeves  when  she  moved 
her  arms.  He  cast  a  glance  at  her,  and  it 
showed  him  her  brow  serene  —  as  he  had 
expected.  Mother's  brow  was  never  fur 
rowed  ;  her  equanimity  was  not  disturbed  by 
the  problem  of  the  men  of  her  family.  Son 
knew  that.  "  How  absurd  !  "  she  was  saying 
in  her  sweet  voice.  "  A  ranch  !  You  know 
I  hate  riding.  You  are  really  tired  out,  dear. 
I'm  glad  the  Merrills  have  given  up  their 
dinner  on  account  of  her  aunt's  death.  Be 
sides,  I  have  had  the  motor  out  all  day,  and  I 
should  really  have  been  ashamed  to  order  it 
6 


"Son" 

around  again.  We'll  dine  quietly,  and  you 
shall  go  to  bed  early." 

"The  motor,"  he  continued  irritably.  "We 
ought  never  to  have  bought  it  Why,  I  can't 
get  rid  of  the  mortgage  hanging  over  this 
house.  If  you  would  only  let  me  explain  the 
accounts  to  you." 

"  I'm  so  stupid  at  figures,"  broke  in  Mother. 
Then  she  added,  her  voice  rising  a  little: 
"  But  if  I'm  to  live  in  New  York  with  no 
way  of  getting  about,  we  will  go  away. 
You've  talked  of  nothing  but  expenses 
every  time  we've  had  an  evening  at  home 
for  weeks." 

A  pink  spot  showed  in  either  cheek,  and 
tears  —  Could  it  be  possible  that  there  were 
tears  in  Mother's  eyes? 

Son  was  not  the  only  one  troubled  by  this 
thought. 

"  Never  mind,"  Father  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  —  well,  no  —  Son  didn't  think  it  was 
cheerful  exactly  —  "I  suppose  we  shall  get 
on  as  we  are.  Don't  worry." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  worrying,"  said  Mother. 
7 


"Son" 

That  night  Son  did  not  see  his  pictures. 
What  was  a  mortgage  ?  And  why  must  one 
have  motors  to  get  about?  He  fell  asleep, 
and  in  his  dream  the  mortgage  with  big  dark 
wings  hovered  over  the  house,  making  a  noise 
like  that  of  the  ventilators  the  chimney  ex 
pert  had  put  on  the  roof,  over  the  chimneys 
that  wouldn't  draw. 

The  next  day  was  Thursday.  Son  had 
been  taken  away  bodily  from  his  pursuits  to 
be  made  ready  for  school.  School  was  an 
innovation  in  his  life,  and  although  his  teacher 
had  often  remarked  upon  his  improvement 
("  When  she  kisses  the  top  of  my  head,"  he 
recounted  at  home),  this  was  only  part  com 
pensation  for  the  loss  of  time  involved. 

After  school  he  had  to  rest;  after  lunch, 
to  go  out.  On  coming  in,  he  was  dressed  for 
supper.  After  supper  he  seized  upon  a 
chance  volume  belonging  to  Baby,  and  began 
to  sound  letters. 

"  Only  one  more  paragraph,"  admonished 
Mother,  who  had  come   in.     She  felt   quite 
weary  at  sight  of  his  struggles. 
8 


"Son" 

Son  stopped  obediently  and  came  over. 
Something  was  working  in  his  mind. 
"  Mother,"  he  began.  But  Mother  was 
watching  Baby.  She  preferred  this  occu 
pation  to  answering  questions.  Son  could 
understand  that.  He  had  the  gentleman's 
chivalric  adoration  of  the  little  lacy  thing, 
with  her  curls,  her  red  cheeks,  her  dancing 
feet.  He  loved  to  see  her  dark  eyes  flash 
when  she  said,  "  Don't  do  dat,  Sonny  !  "  Even 
when  she  grabbed  his  pencil  or  snatched  his 
paper  away,  he  looked  down  on  her  with  eyes 
of  love.  Well,  there  was  still  the  old  geog 
raphy  Mother  had  used  when  she  was  a  little 
girl,  to  her  scant  profit.  Son  got  it  out. 
Father  could  be  diverted  from  thoughts  of 
shoulder-riding,  and  from  him,  if  not  from 
Mother,  it  was  possible  to  elicit  geographical 
information.  This  was  sometimes  given  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  so  loud  and  decided  to 
Son  that  it  quite  paralyzed  him,  and  he  was 
expected  to  remember  a  great  many  things 
all  at  once  that  Father  had  known  all  his  life. 
But  he  would  thaw  out  when  he  was  undress- 
9 


"Son" 

ing,  and  say  everything  over  instead  of  un 
buttoning  his  buttons. 

On  this  evening  the  geography  had  no 
charms  for  him.  The  Thought  would  come 
between.  When  Baby  was  tucked  into  her 
crib,  he  tried  again.  "  Mother."  Now 
Mother  was  systematic,  and  it  was  bedtime. 
So  she  hurried  him  off,  promising  to  send 
Father  up  if  he  should  come  home  early 
enough. 

Son  lay  in  bed  listening.  He  knew  that  if 
Father  came  home  he  would  hear  the  Thought 
But  Father  had  gone  to  the  club  to  play 
squash,  and  did  not  get  home  until  just  in 
time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

"  He  is  asleep  by  this  time,"  said  Mother. 
"  Do  you  know,"  she  added,  "  the  activity  of 
that  child's  mind  is  such  that  it  actually  tires 
me." 

The  next  morning,  having  been  out  until 
the  small  hours,  Father  and  Mother  slept  late, 
and  the  Thought  remained  unspoken.  He 
came  home  from  school  and  found  Mother 
out  for  lunch,  which  he  ate  with  Baby.  Then 
10 


"Son" 

Son  did  the  unheard-of  thing.  He  put  on 
his  overcoat,  but  forgot  all  the  buttons, 
tucked  his  book  under  his  arm,  and  walked 
out  of  the  house  by  himself.  He  was  going 
to  "  Down  Town "  to  have  some  one  print  it. 
There  were  several  of  his  friends  to  whom  he 
wished  to  give  copies,  —  the  musician  who 
was  so  full  of  comprehension  though  he  had 
no  boy  of  his  own ;  a  friend  of  Mother's,  who 
had  taken  it  home  to  show  her  family  and 
had  returned  it  by  a  messenger ;  and  Baby, 
who  did  n't  understand,  but  that  was  no 
matter. 

That  he  was  doing  wrong  never  occurred 
to  him,  not  even  when  he  was  eluding  his 
nurse.  She  was  one  of  those  persons  to  whom 
it  was  not  worth  while  to  try  and  explain. 
Therefore  he  eliminated  her. 

He  had  a  few  qualms  as  he  crossed  the 
avenues,  missing  unemotionally  the  accus 
tomed  hand  which  alternately  jerked  him  for 
ward  or  pulled  him  back.  But  he  managed 
quite  well  by  himself,  owing  to  the  politeness 
of  the  chauffeurs,  who  in  all  cases  refrained 
II 


"Son" 

from  running  him  down.  Once  on  Fifth 
Avenue  he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  little 
pocket-book,  which  contained,  beside  a  penny, 
a  five-dollar  gold  piece  given  him  by  his 
grandmother  on  her  last  visit.  Having  been 
passed  by  two  omnibuses,  the  drivers  of 
which  had  failed  to  observe  his  signal,  he 
boarded  a  third,  the  conductor  accosting  him 
as  "  Sonny "  and  lifting  him  in.  It  was 
pleasant  to  be  known  by  name,  and  Son  felt 
quite  at  home.  He  had  some  difficulty  in 
deciding  which  of  the  two  coins  he  should 
present  as  his  fare,  as  it  was  hard  to  part 
with  either.  Finally  he  determined  to  give 
up  the  gold  piece,  as  it  did  not  shine  quite  so 
beautifully  as  the  penny. 

The  conductor,  after  a  curious  glance  at  his 
passenger,  accepted  it  without  demur,  then 
to  Son's  great  surprise  began  to  shower  him 
with  money.  He  put  it  into  Son's  pockets 
himself,  until  they  bulged  with  it  Son's  first 
impulse  had  been  to  refuse  it,  as  he  had  been 
instructed  never  to  take  money  from  strangers, 
but  on  second  thought,  under  the  circum- 
12 


"Son" 

stances,  he  decided  to  accept  it.  Then  the 
conductor,  while  showing  Son  a  little  hole 
into  which  he  must  pop  the  last  coin,  a  ten- 
cent  piece,  drew  down  upon  himself  the  wrath 
of  a  passenger  whose  repeated  button  press 
ings  from  the  outside  had  failed  to  make  the 
bus  stop,  and  hastened  back  to  his  post. 

The  vehicle  began  to  fill,  and  Son  sat 
quietly  observing  his  fellow-passengers. 
Once  he  rose  to  offer  his  seat  to  a  lady,  but 
the  space  vacated  was  almost  imperceptible, 
and,  besides,  he  had  not  noticed  that  a  man 
was  in  the  act  of  alighting.  The  lady  sat 
down  without  having  seen  Son,  so  he  resumed 
his  seat.  At  the  end  of  the  route  he  made 
his  descent  somewhat  doubtfully.  The  con 
ductor  appeared  to  be  busy,  so  Son  did  not 
interrupt  him. 

In  the  street  he  stood  quite  still,  hugging 
his  book  under  his  arm.  He  was  cheerful, 
but  had  not  determined  upon  his  next  move. 
Then  he  decided  to  follow  the  downward- 
moving  crowd.  It  was  a  brisk  day,  and 
people  walked  in  a  springy  and  elastic  fash- 
13 


"Son" 

ion.  Son  imitated  this.  He  even  tried  to 
whistle,  an  accomplishment  so  new  that  he 
did  not  make  a  success  of  it.  At  a  street 
corner  he  perceived  a  small  crowd,  all  male. 
His  eyes  did  not  travel  further  than  their 
legs,  until  some  one,  without  comment,  picked 
him  up  and  swung  him  shoulderward. 
Higher  than  the  derby  hats,  he  could  now 
look  down  upon  the  street  preacher,  who 
was  waving  his  arms  and  telling  about  Heaven. 

"  But,  beloved,"  he  shouted  fervently,  "  be 
not  ignorant  of  this  one  thing,  that  one  day 
is  with  the  Lord  as  a  thousand  years. " 

"  I'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  do  my  work 
then"  thought  Son. 

Work  —  he  was  forgetting.  He  had  no  more 
precious  moments  to  spend  then.  In  response 
to  his  request,  he  was  set  gently  on  his  feet, 
and  made  off,  but  without  resuming  his  manly 
stride.  Ten  minutes  later  he  arrested  his  small 
perplexed  footsteps  at  sight  of  another  hu 
man  being  who  was  likewise  walking  without 
seeming  to  know  his  destination.  Son  was 
not  dismayed  by  the  length  of  this  person's 
14 


"Son" 

hair,  nor  by  the  dark  and  dreadful-looking 
hat  pulled  far  down  over  his  forehead,  for 
under  the  hat  gleamed  a  pair  of  prepossess 
ing  gray  eyes.  These  presently  fixed  them 
selves  upon  Son,  before  he  had  determined 
what  mode  of  address  to  use  in  accosting  the 
stranger. 

"  Fine  day,"  said  the  stranger  easily. 

Son  had  not  come  all  this  distance  to  dis 
cuss  the  weather. 

"  I  want  to  find  a  printing  man,"  he 
said,  "  to  print  my  book.  Do  you  know 
any?" 

The  stranger  began  at  Son's  cap  and  let 
his  eyes  descend  slowly,  missing  nothing  — 
from  delicately  shaped,  cropped  head  to 
small,  squarely  planted  feet. 

"  I  didn't  button  all  the  buttons,"  said  Son 
apologetically,  watching  the  eyes  in  the  de 
scent,  "  because,  you  see,  they're  so  stiff.  And 
it  takes  so  much  time." 

"  Of  course  it  does,"  agreed  the  stranger. 
"  Shall  we  find  a  secluded  place  where  we 
can  talk?" 

IS 


"Son" 

Son  did  not  know  what  a  secluded  place 
was,  but  he  felt  that  it  would  be  safe  to  go 
there,  and  put  his  mittened  hand  into  that  of 
his  new  acquaintance. 

They  walked  through  a  labyrinth  of  crooked 
streets,  and  finally  came  out  on  a  big  sunny 
square,  where  there  were  trees  and  a  few 
Italian  children  playing  about  a  fountain. 
Nurse-maids  who  had  not  already  taken  their 
charges  indoors  walked  with  unusual  alacrity 
behind  their  perambulators. 

"In  here  are  benches,"  said  Son's  new 
companion.  "  Now  show  it  to  me." 

"  I  think  you  could  see  better,"  Son  an 
swered  gladly,  "  if  you  were  nearer.  I'll 
climb  up  on  the  bench." 

He  did,  and  the  stranger,  over  Son's  shoul 
der,  took  a  brief  survey  of  the  contents  of 
the  book. 

"  But  these  are  drawings,  and  not  in  my 
line,"  he  said  after  a  few  pages.  "I  am  a 
poet,"  he  added  solemnly. 

"  I  make  poetry  too,"  said  Son,  nothing 
daunted. 

16 


"Son" 

"  The  —  I  mean  —  you  do  ?  "  said  the  man. 
"  Let's  hear  some." 

There  was  a  beautiful  vibrating  note  in 
his  voice  which  made  Son  quite  willing 
to  fold  his  hands  and  comply  with  this 
request. 

He  began,  still  standing  on  the  bench  and 
facing  the  other  poet : 

"  Good-bye,  my  blue  bell ! 
All  winter  long 
Blue  bell  is  resting 
While  I  sing  my  song. 

"  The  snow  is  her  blanket 
When  the  leaves  are  gone; 
Blue  bell  is  resting 
While  I  sing  my  song." 

The  man  did  not  say  anything  for  a 
moment  While  Son  waited,  his  eye  trav 
elled  the  dusty  streets. 

"  Any  more?"  he  asked  then. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Son  answered.  "  Lots  and 
lots ! " 

"  Out  with  it,"  encouraged  the  man. 

Son  continued  in  his  clear  voice : 
17 


"Son" 

"In  the  forest  green  and  wild, 
When  just  one  bird  is  singing, 
How  pleasant  it  seems  to  you  and  me 
By  the  flowers  gleaming." 

"Have  you  been  in  the  woods?"  asked 
the  man. 

"No-o,"  Son  admitted.  "But  that's  the 
way  I  think  they  are.  I  made  that  when  I 
was  going  down  town  with  Mother  to  buy 
my  clothes." 

"Do  you  write  them  down?"  said  the 
man. 

Son  smiled.  "  I  can't  write,"  he  said.  "  I 
know  them.  I  can't  stay  any  longer,"  he 
added  firmly. 

"  Just  one  more,"  pleaded  the  man. 

"Then  I'll  say  'The  Sun's  Call,'"  agreed 
Son  after  a  moment's  deliberation. 

"  The  first  day  of  the  summer 
The  Sun  arose  to  call  the  flowers. 
He  called  them  by  name : 

'  Come,  daffodils,  crocuses,  violets,  and  daisies, — 
Come,  sit  in  the  wood's  shade  in  glee.' 
No  sooner  he'd  spoken,  they  came    marching   in 

form, 
Marching  so  happily. 

18 


"Son" 

"  The  second  day  of  the  summer 
The  Sun  arose  to  call  the  birds. 
He  called  them  by  name ; 
'  Come,   bluebird,   come,    robins    and    chickadees 

too,  — 

Come,  sit  in  the  wood's  shade  and  sing.' 
No  sooner  he'd   spoken,   they  came   marching  by 

twos, 
And  sweetly  they  did  sing." 

"  I'll  take  you  to  a  printing  man,"  said  Son's 
new  friend  abruptly.  "  Come  along." 

Hand  in  hand,  they  walked  for  many  blocks 
in  silence.  Before  an  imposing  looking  build 
ing  they  stopped. 

"  Take  the  elevator,"  said  the  man,  "  and 
ask  for  Mr.  White.  Perhaps  he'll  be  kinder 
to  you  than  he  was  to  me,"  he  added  grimly. 

Long  after  the  big  building  had  swallowed 
up  Son,  the  man  stood  outside,  motionless 
except  for  his  eyes. 

Meanwhile  Son  was  having  difficulty  with 
the  elevator  man,  a  man  of  no  understanding. 

"Aw!  Go  home  to  your  Ma,"  said  this 
individual.  "You  don't  want  Mr.  White." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Son,  flushing.  He  was 
not  accustomed  to  being  circumvented  except 
19 


"Son" 

by  his  nurse,  and  to  her  piling  up  of  reasons 
why  he  should  not  do  what  he  wanted,  he 
systematically  turned  a  deaf  ear  and  went 
ahead. 

Providentially  a  grown-up  passenger  en 
tered  the  elevator  at  this  juncture  and  the 
discussion  ended.  The  passenger  getting 
out  on  the  tenth  floor,  the  man  deposited  Son 
on  the  eleventh,  slid  open  the  door,  and 
closed  it  unceremoniously  behind  him. 

The  hour  was  somewhat  late,  and  a  burly 
Irishwoman  was  on  her  knees  cleaning  up 
the  day's  grime  in  the  fireproof  hall. 

"Is  Mr.  White  here?"  said  Son,  a  little 
timidly  for  him. 

"  Sure  and  he  is,  you  blessed  lamb,"  was 
the  hearty  response.  "  Workin'  after  time, 
and  busy  as  a  bee.  It's  him  that  stays  late 
every  day.  Shtepp  this  way."  She  bustled 
to  her  feet  and  opened  the  door  with  a  soapy 
hand. 

Son  found  himself  in  a  big  office  full  of 
typewriters,  one  or  two  of  which  were  still 
clicking  busily. 

20 


"Son" 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  White,"  he  said  to  a 
young  lady  with  her  hat  and  coat  on,  who 
seemed  to  be  just  going  out.  The  young 
lady  was  in  a  hurry,  called  him  "  dear " 
vaguely,  waved  her  hand  toward  the  inner 
offices,  on  which  names  were  printed  in  big 
letters,  and  went  her  way. 

Son  stood  still  and  spelled  out  three  names. 
Then  he  began  on  a  fourth.  To  his  great 
joy  it  was  WHITE.  He  stepped  up  boldly  to 
a  desk  where  sat  a  young  man  doing  nothing. 

"  I  want  to  go  in  there,"  he  said. 

"  Mr.  White's  gone  home,"  was  the  care 
less  answer. 

"No,  he  hasn't,"  said  Son.  "  He's  in  there. 
The  woman  said  so." 

"  Oh  !  Well,  maybe  he  is,"  said  the  young 
man,  not  unkindly,  "  but  he  is  busy.  You 
must  send  in  your  name  if  you  want  him. 
Here,  Tom!  take  this  —  this  kid's  name  in 
to  Mr.  White." 

Tom  came  up  grinning.     Son  brightened. 
Here  was  a   boy  —  many  sizes   larger   than 
himself,  to  be  sure,  but  a  boy  for  all  that 
21 


"Son" 

"Name,  please,"  said  the  boy  in  a  busi 
nesslike  manner,  producing  a  bit  of  yellow 
paper,  and  taking  a  pencil  from  behind 
his  ear. 

"  Charles  Warren,"  said  Son  distinctly. 

The  boy  scrawled  it  down  and  knocked  at 
the  much  desired  door,  behind  which  he  dis 
appeared,  shutting  it  with  precision.  In  an 
instant  he  emerged,  grinning  again.  He  had 
lost  a  front  tooth  (playing  baseball,  Son  sup 
posed),  but  that  in  no  way  detracted  from  the 
geniality  of  his  expression.  Son  admired 
him. 

"He  says,"  drawled  the  boy,  "that  MISTER 
Warren  is  to  come  in.  '  Show  him  in  at 
once  ! '  he  says. " 

Son's  bosom  swelled.  Proudly  he  ap 
proached  the  door.  "I  can  go  alone,"  he 
said  with  dignity. 

"Oh,  all  right,  Mister  Warren,"  said  the 
boy,  replacing  his  pencil  and  winking  at 
someone  behind. 

Son  opened  the  door  and  shut  it  again 
carefully,  just  as  he  had  seen  the  office  boy 

22 


"Son" 

do.  He  saw  three  windows,  and  beyond, 
the  pink  light  of  the  winter  sunset.  He  loved 
pink  light,  and  had  often  wanted  to  write 
poetry  about  it,  only  no  poetry  could  be  as 
beautiful  as  the  light  itself.  He  had  time  to 
think  of  this,  for  the  old  gentleman  at  the 
desk  had  not  yet  lifted  his  eyes  from  the 
papers  over  which  he  was  bending. 

"  Come  in,  Charley,"  said  the  old  gentle 
man,  hearing  the  click  of  the  door,  "  I've 
been  expecting  a  visit  from  you.  On  the 
whole  it's  selling  as  well  as  we  could  expect 
at  this  time  of  year." 

Receiving  no  reply,  he  at  last  raised  his 
eyes.  There,  in  the  middle  of  his  Axminster 
rug,  motionless,  stood  Son. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 
His  quiet  dignity  had  deserted  him.  He  ap 
peared  thoroughly  flustered.  "I  —  you  — 
there's  some  mistake.  They  told  me  — " 

Son  approached.     The  pink  light  was  on  his 
face,  on  the  rug,  even  on  the  stern  features  of 
Chief  Justice  Shaw  looking  down  from  the 
wall.     Verily  they  seemed  to  smile. 
23 


"Son" 

"  Are  you  a  printing  man  ?  "  inquired  Son, 
standing  beside  the  desk. 

"I  —  yes,  yes,  I  am,  surely  I  am,"  said 
Mr.  White.  "  What  —  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Please  print  my  book,"  said  Son.  "  I 
want  lots  of  money." 

Mr.  White  spent  a  long  minute  looking  at 
Son.  Everybody  did  that;  so  he  was  quite 
accustomed  to  it  and  did  not  mind.  He 
wrinkled  his  nose  a  little  bit  under  the  scru 
tiny,  and  then,  remembering  that  his  nurse 
had  told  him  never  to  do  it,  straightened  it 
out  again. 

"Money?"  said  Mr.  White,  finally  seem 
ing  to  recover  his  equanimity  in  some  slight 
degree.  "  Now,  what  for  ?  " 

Son  knit  his  brows  and  tried  to  think  it  all 
out  before  speaking.  Bits  of  fairy  tales  came 
back  to  him  and  helped  him  in  his  expression. 

"  There's  a  great,  big  monster  over  the 
house,"  he  said  slowly.  "  No,  not  monster," 
he  corrected  himself,  "  but  I  think  it  begins 
with  '  M.'  It  has  wings.  I  dreamed  about 
it.  But  if  we  give  it  money,  it  will  go  away." 
24 


"Son" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  A  blue 
veined  hand,  with  a  gold  ring  on  it,  stole  out 
softly  and  drew  Son  so  gently  that  he  hardly 
noticed  it  onto  a  welcoming  knee.  Then  the 
hand  deftly  removed  Son's  overcoat,  after 
which  it  drew  off  his  mittens,  and  presently 
busied  itself  with  opening  a  large  gold 
watch. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  the  jewels  in  it?" 
said  Mr.  White.  "  Look,  how  many !  One, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven." 

Son,  for  delicious  uncounted  moments,  lost 
himself  in  contemplation  of  the  delicate 
mechanism  of  the  wheels.  Then  Mr.  White 
said,  as  if  continuing  a  conversation : 

"An  unpleasant  monster  it  must  have  been 
too,  or  one  would  naturally  not  have  dreamed 
of  it.  What  did  you  say  its  name  was?  " 

"  Oh,  /  remember  now,"  replied  Son 
brightly.  "  It  was  a  mortgage.  Did  you 
speak?"  he  added,  looking  up.  But  Mr. 
White  did  not  appear  to  have  said  anything ; 
so  he  continued,  "  And  we  might  all  have  to 
go  away  —  away  from  New  York." 
25 


"Son" 

"On  account  of  the  mortgage?"  said  Mr. 
White  quickly. 

"  N-o,"  said  Son,  "  I  don't  think  so.  But 
Mother  couldn't  walk." 

"Why  not?" 

"  She  couldn't,"  repeated  Son  with  convic 
tion.  "  She  has  to  have  the  motor.  She 
would  be  so  tired." 

Then  his  eye  fell  on  his  book,  which  was 
lying  beside  his  cap  and  mittens  on  the  desk. 

"  Shall  I  show  it  to  you  ?  "  he  said  eagerly. 

"  Presently,"  said  Mr.  White. 

He  was  going  to  ask  more  questions.  The 
pink  light  had  all  gone,  and  Son  was  begin 
ning  to  feel  empty  in  his  stomach. 

" Is  your  father  tired  too? " 

"I  didn't  say  Mother  was  tired,"  explained 
Son  patiently,  "I  said  she  would  be  tired. 
Father  is  tired  sometimes.  And  he  hasn't 
time  to  work  as  much  as  me." 

"  When  do  you  work? " 

Son  laughed  at  this  funny  question.  "  In 
bed  in  the  morning,  before  Mathilde  comes 
in — and  before  lunch,  after  school  —  and 
26 


"Son" 

after  lunch  till  I  go  out  —  and  —  oh,  a  long 
time  when  I  come  in,  before  supper  —  and 
after  supper,  when  Baby  has  gone  to  bed, 
because  she  bothers  —  she's  so  little." 

"  And  in  bed  you  dream  of  mortgages," 
said  Mr.  White. 

"  That  was  after  I  went  to  sleep,"  said  Son. 
"  Before  I  sleep,  I  make  poetry." 

Mr.  White  asked  for  the  poetry,  and  Son, 
for  the  second  time  that  day,  repeated  it  all, 
after  which  they  went  through  the  book 
from  cover  to  cover.  Some  one  came  in  and 
touched  the  electric  button  and  went  away 
again.  It  had  grown  quite  dark. 

"  I've  got  to  go  home,"  said  Son  suddenly. 

"  I'll  go  too,  and  talk  to  your  father  about 
the  book,"  said  Mr.  White. 

Son's  head  swam.  For  a  moment  he  for 
got  money,  mortgage,  and  motor,  and  saw 
his  precious  book  multiplied  by  unknown 
quantities.  Together  they  fell  miles  in  the 
elevator,  and  together  were  tucked  into  the 
great  red  Mercedes  that  buzzed  below  and 
kept  herself  from  freezing. 
27 


"Son" 

"  You  won't  be  cold,"  said  Mr.  White  so 
licitously,  looking  for  Son  among  the  furs. 

"  Oh  no!  "  cried  a  muffled  voice  delightedly. 
"  Why,  this  is  lots  bigger  than  ours  !  " 

"  It's  to  keep  you  from  getting  tired,"  said 
Mr.  White. 

"  I'm  never  tired,"  answered  Son. 

Now  this  could  not  have  been  strictly  true, 
else  how  did  the  lamps  wink  and  wink  so,  and 
how  did  Son  seem  to  be  missing  so  much 
that  he  wanted  to  see,  while  every  minute  or 
two  he  knew  that  an  arm  was  round  him,  cud 
dling  him  close,  and  in  the  intervening  minutes 
he  knew  nothing  at  all? 

Son's  disordered  house  presented  a  strange 
appearance,  for  the  shades  had  not  been  drawn 
on  the  entrance  floor,  and  the  windows,  with 
lights  behind,  were  like  eyes  peering  into  the 
night.  The  bell  was  answered  by  the  kitchen 
maid  without  her  apron  on.  Upstairs  in  the 
library  sat  Mother,  clad  in  her  morning  walk 
ing  suit,  her  pretty  hair  disarranged  under  her 
hat,  no  veil  on,  and  both  hands  over  her  eyes. 
Father  was  standing  before  the  cold  ashes  of 
28 


"Son" 

a  past  fire  in  an  attitude  of  warming  himself. 
Neither  was  speaking. 

Suddenly  upon  the  threshold  of  this  silent 
room  appeared  the  erect  figure  of  an  old  man 
with  a  little  child  in  his  arms. 

Mother  lifted  her  eyes  first,  and  every 
vestige  of  color  left  her  face.  Son's  head 
drooped  over  Mr.  White's  arm;  one  little 
hand  hung  down  in  utter  relaxation. 

Father  looked,  and  stifled  a  cry  as  he  saw  a 
warning  finger. 

"  Hush !  "  whispered  Mr.  White. 

Father  and  Mother,  trembling,  met  each 
other's  eyes.  The  reaction  was  too  great. 
They  came  together,  and  clung  tight,  with 
closed  eyes. 

Then  Mother  disengaged  herself,  walked 
over,  and  mutely  held  out  her  arms.  Mr. 
White  shook  his  head.  "  It  might  disturb 
him,"  he  breathed.  "I'll  carry  him  up 
myself." 

It  was  a  silent  procession  that  climbed  up 
to  Son's  little  room,  and  still  a  silent  one  that 
made  its  way  down  again. 
29 


"Son" 

" Now  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you"  said  Mr. 
White. 

Father  and  Mother  hung  down  their  heads, 
like  children  expecting  to  be  scolded.  No  one 
sat  down. 

"  He  came  to  me,"  began  Mr.  White  slowly, 
"  no  matter  how.  That 's  another  story.  He 
was  carrying  on  his  shoulders  mortgage  and 
what  not,  the  whole  burden  of  your  imaginary 
difficulties.  You,  Charley,  and  you  too,  Maud, 
piled  it  all  on.  You  carried  on  your  fruitless 
discussion  before  his  sensitive  ears.  You 
made  his  heart  beat  faster  at  your  silly  words." 

Father  and  Mother  were  listening  now, 
no  longer  like  children,  but  like  prisoners 
arraigned  at  a  bar  of  justice. 

The  Judge  looked  sternly  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  his  face  did  not  soften. 

"  I  have  known  you  all  my  life,  you  two, 
and  that  gives  me  the  right  to  speak.  Your 
father,  Charley,  —  my  friend,  —  gave  you  his 
abilities,  every  one  of  them,  and  what  have 
you  done  with  them?  You've  passed  them 
on  to  your  son,  thank  the  Lord,  but  thafs  -all. 
30 


"Son" 

A  little  writing,  a  little  law  practice,  a  great 
deal  of  exercise,  and  a  lot  of  grumbling.  And 
you,  Maud,  —  you  married  him.  Have  you 
stimulated  him?  Have  you  tried  to  bring 
out  what  was  in  him?  Or  have  you  hung 
around  his  neck  like  a  stone,  with  your  lazi 
ness,  your  extravagance,  your  lack  of  inter 
est  in  his  career,  and  your  craving  for  luxuries  ? 
Why,  if  I  had  a  boy  like  that,"  —  his  voice 
trembled,  as  he  turned  toward  Father,  —  "  I'd 
work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  if  necessary,  and 
with  a  song  in  my  heart  all  day  long.  Since 
your  marriage  I've  seen  you  only  in  the  pub 
lishing  line,  Charley.  I  haven't  been  in  your 
home,  for  from  what  I'd  heard  I  felt  that  we'd 
have  no  meeting  ground  there.  I  haven't 
known  your  children.  You  never  told  me ! 
The  boy  didn't  count  much.  You  passed 
him  over  lightly,  like  everything  else.  Why, 
the  very  conductor,  the  loafer  on  the  street, 
the  office  boy,  appreciate  him  more  than  you  ! 
When  I  think  of  it" — his  voice  trembling 
again — "  He  wanted  money.  Lots  of  it,  mind 
you.  He  wanted  his  book  printed.  Because 
31 


"Son" 

his  Mother  couldn't  walk  —  she  had  to  have  a 
motor.  Maud!  Maud!  If  7  were  his  mother, 
I'd  be  willing  to  walk  till  there  were  no  shoes 
left  on  my  feet,  thanking  my  God  all  the 
time  for  the  luxury  of  such  a  boy." 

There  was  a  deep  silence  after  Mr.  White 
had  ceased.  Mother  was  not  crying.  She  had 
lifted  her  head,  and  Father,  looking  at  her, 
saw  a  resemblance  to  Son.  Then  she  smiled, 
and  the  tension  snapped. 

The  Judge  had  suspended  sentence,  and 
was  standing  between  his  prisoners,  a  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  each. 


JIM 


JIM 


SON,  with  sinking  heart,  looked  for  the  fif 
tieth  time  up  and  down  the  driveway,  — 
Jim  was  not  there.  He  had  not  been  there 
for  a  week. 

The  grass  was  a  delicate  green,  little  cro 
cuses  dotted  it  here  and  there,  shrubs  had 
begun  to  be  painted  a  faint  yellow,  but  the 
glory  had  gone  out  of  the  Spring,  — Jim  was 
not  there. 

Son  did  not  care  for  horses  in  general,  but 
Jim's  horse  he  had  seen  with  Jim's  eyes. 
He  knew  every  proud  motion,  every  curve  of 
neck  and  swing  of  tail,  every  graceful  lift  of 
foot  and  dainty  planting  of  hoof.  He  mar 
velled  to  see  a  horse  of  such  bigness  handle 
himself  so  easily.  It  took  a  big  horse  to 
carry  Jim,  big  Jim.  And  Jim  was  not  there. 

Son,  lost  in  thought,  wandered  about  the 
Mall  by  himself.  His  friends,  after  repeated 
35 


"Son" 

efforts  at  inducing  sociability,  had  left  him 
and  gone  off  to  their  own  pursuits.  Mathilde, 
generally  watchful,  was  deep  in  conversation 
with  a  "  gar9on  de  mon  pays." 

Son,  very  melancholy  and  not  so  much  as 
seeing  his  little  furry  friends  who  rushed 
hither  and  thither,  passionately  intent  upon 
squirrel  business,  walked  along  slowly.  Pres 
ently  he  came  to  a  full  stop. 

Now  Son  was  quite  accustomed,  being  a 
city  boy,  to  seeing  men  on  benches  in  the 
full  sunlight  of  a  Saturday  morning.  But  in 
this  particular  man,  whose  back  was  turned 
toward  him,  he  discerned  something  that 
made  him  vaguely  uneasy. 

Quietly  attentive,  he  observed  all  that  he 
could  see  of  the  man.  His  head  was  bowed, 
his  shoulders  drooped.  They  were  big 
shoulders,  but  they  looked  sloping. 

Son  left  the  main  walk,  and  with  footsteps 
that  were  now  sharply  pattering,  soon  reached 
the  side  path  where  the  man  sat  on  his  bench. 
His  toes  danced,  and  he  skipped  a  little, 
uttering  a  tiny  squeal,  as  he  sometimes  did 
36 


Jim 

when  joy  was  too  great  to  be  entirely 
controlled. 

Buttonless,  splendorless,  horseless,  —  what 
matter !  It  was  Jim.  Curiously  he  seemed 
to  be  asleep.  How  to  wake  him  ? 

"Jim!"  he  cried. 

No  answer. 

"  Jim  !  "  again  louder. 

No  reply. 

Son  stood  puzzled.  Then  inspiration  came 
to  him.  He  had  an  accomplishment,  prac 
tised  faithfully  to  amuse  Baby,  who  was 
sporty. 

There  was  a  long  inquiring  whinny. 

And  Jim  heard.  If  his  sleep  had  been  that 
which  melts  into  death,  that  sound  would 
have  brought  him  back.  He  did  not  open 
his  eyes,  but  he  stirred,  and  put  out  a  hand 
gropingly. 

"All  right,  Don,"  he  called  in  his  voice 
like  a  deep-toned  organ,  — "  all  right,  old 
boy !  I'm  here  !  " 

Then  his  heavy  eyelids  lifted  slowly. 

Son,  a  little  ashamed  of  his  ruse,  but  with 
37 


"Son" 

all  the  love  of  his  bursting  heart  in  his  face, 
smiled  up  at  him.  Now  Jim's  face  was  red 
enough,  but  at  this  moment  a  deeper  flush 
was  beginning  at  yesterday's  collar  and 
mounting  slowly  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"  Go  away,  Son,"  he  muttered.  "  Please 
go  away." 

Then  he  saw  Son's  face  quiver.  With  a 
groan  Jim  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Please,"  he  repeated  huskily. 

And  Son  went  without  another  word  or 
look. 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  is  the  matter  with 
Son,"  said  Mother. 

Father  paused,  shaving-brush  in  hand,  and 
came  in  from  his  dressing-room. 

"  He  isn't  well?"  he  inquired  sharply. 

"Oh,  no!"  reassured  Mother, — "not  ill, 
but  listless.  Why,  to-night  he  was  sitting 
after  supper,  doing  nothing.  Baby  wanted 
him  to  sing  to  her  and  he  said,  '  No,  darling, 
not  to-night.'  So  7  sang,  but  she  didn't  like 
it  half  so  well." 

38 


Jim 

There  was  a  new  note  in  the  voices  of 
Father  and  Mother  when  they  were  speaking 
about  Son.  They  wanted  so  much  to  under 
stand.  But  it  would  take  years  to  pick  up 
all  the  threads.  And  Son  had  been  used  for 
so  long  to  thinking  everything  out  all  alone. 
He  was  doing  it  now,  in  bed,  and  he  felt  that 
they  could  not  help  him.  No  one  could  help 
him,  for  he  had  hurt  his  dearest  friend. 

Son's  little  body  was  full  of  electric  wires ; 
he  clenched  his  hands  and  trembled  all  over. 

"  He  thought  it  was  Don,"  said  Son  over 
and  over.  "  And  it  was  really  me.  He  put 
out  his  hand  —  and  Don  wasn't  there.  And 
he  was  so  disappointed"  Son  buried  his  face 
in  the  pillows  He  could  not  bear  to  think 
any  more. 

In  the  morning  with  the  sun  filtering  in 
through  the  shutters,  last  night's  burden  came 
back  and  placed  itself  on  his  shoulders.  But 
daylight  helped,  and  Son  resolutely  put  down 
the  grief  that  unfitted  him  for  action.  Some 
thing  must  be  done. 

Every  day  that  week  Son  went  to  the  park 
39 


"Son" 

full  of  hope,  and  every  day  came  home  with 
his  hope  unfulfilled.  On  Sunday  afternoon 
he  took  a  walk  with  Father.  With  his  little 
hand  in  Father's  big  one,  and  cheerful  con 
versation  going  on  all  the  time,  Son  felt 
happier  than  he  had  for  many  a  day.  He 
liked  to  hear  the  swish  of  spring  dresses,  to 
see  the  heavy  sunlight  dropping  down  on, the 
houses,  to  watch  the  puffing  motors  and  the 
children  in  their  best  clothes,  —  all  the  little 
girls  with  bright  flowers  in  their  hats.  He 
thought  of  Baby  growing  bigger  and  wearing 
such  a  hat.  He  wondered  what  flowers  would 
look  prettiest  with  her  curls. 

Suddenly  Father  felt  his  hand  clutched. 
He  looked  down  and  could  not  believe  his 
senses.  Son's  face  was  distorted  with  wrath, 
his  eyes  blazed. 

"  It's  not  his,"  he  panted,  "  it's  not  his" 

"Not   his    what?      What    isn't   who's?" 
said   Father  hopelessly,  following  the  direc 
tion  of  Son's  wrathful  gaze. 

What   he   saw   was   a   particularly   showy 
police   horse.     His    nostril    glowed    red,    his 
40 


Jim 

glossy  neck  curved  proudly,  his  hoof  pawed 
the  asphalt  with  impatience  not  fully  con 
trolled.  Yet  he  knew  his  duty,  and  was 
doing  it,  as  became  him,  though  this  rider 
sat  him  impersonally,  encouraging  neither  by 
pressure  of  leg  nor  whispered  word.  The 
policeman's  buttons  gleamed  in  the  sunlight ; 
it  was  reflected,  too,  in  the  horse's  highly 
polished  bits. 

Before  Father  could  move,  right  into  the 
midst  of  the  Sunday  crowd  who,  at  a  signal 
from  the  policeman,  were  crossing  the  Avenue, 
as  if  shot  out  of  a  catapult,  darted  Son  — 
Son,  who  was  afraid  of  horses;  Son,  who 
could  not  be  induced  to  ride ;  Son,  who  never 
of  his  own  volition  went  near  the  stable. 
And  now  he  was  standing  a  quarter  of  an 
inch  away  from  this  great  beast,  holding  out 
two  supplicating  little  hands.  Before  Father 
could  follow  and  grab  him,  before  the  police 
man  had  had  time  to  realize  what  was  going 
on,  a  veined  neck  was  gently  lowered,  and  after 
one  sniff  a  cold  muzzle  thrust  into  the  warm 
waiting  palms.  The  alien  policeman  smiled. 
41 


"Son" 

"  The  horse  knows  him,  sure,"  he  said  to 
Father,  whose  big  arms  were  by  this  time 
encircling  Son. 

"Come  on,  old  man,"  whispered  Father, 
"  everybody's  looking."  Son  had  been  quite 
unconscious  of  this,  and  cared  not  at  all,  but 
he  understood  that  grown-up  people  disap 
proved  of  scenes,  and  so  suffered  himself  to 
be  led  away  and  lost  in  the  throng. 

Father  looked  down  on  the  figure  at  his 
side,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  Son  was  very 
little.  But  he  knew  that  the  small  heart  was 
full  of  emotions  that  he  did  not  understand, 
and  very  humbly  his  thoughts  melted  into  a 
sort  of  prayer  that  he  might  never  thrust  rude 
fingers  among  those  delicately  tuned  strings. 
He  listened  for  the  outburst  that  he  knew 
would  come,  for  Son's  chest  was  heaving. 

"  It  was  Don,"  said  Son. 

Father  did  not  catch  what  was  said.  Son 
had  a  habit  of  forgetting  the  difference  in 
size,  and  speaking  without  turning  his  head, 
Thus,  many  times,  on  their  walks,  conversa 
tion  had  halted  between  them,  Son's  words 
42 


Jim 

being  carried  away  on  the  breeze.  Father 
remembered  this  and  felt  that  the  loss  had 
been  his.  So  he  bent  his  shoulders  and  said 
"What?"  patiently. 

"  It  was  Don"  repeated  Son,  lifting  his 
eyes  full  of  misery.  "  Jim's  Don  —  Jim's  — 
Jim's—  Jim's!" 

"Who's  Jim?  "  inquired  Father. 

"Jim ! "  said  Son,  smiling  through  his 
tears.  He  thought  it  very  funny  that  Father 
did  not  know.  Then  he  explained  the  whole 
situation  as  he  understood  it,  painting  in  the 
blackest  colors  his  own  fraud  and  perfidy. 

Father's  education  was  progressing,  though 
he  lacked  the  imagination  to  fill  in  the  meagre 
outlines  of  Son's  story,  —  to  realize  the  bitter 
ness  of  self-reproach,  the  dark  nights  of, 
despair.  But  he  knew  that  Son  cared  very 
much;  and  other  things  he  suspected,  that 
Son  did  not.  Therefore  his  suggestion  was 
practical. 

"  I'll    see   the    Police    Commissioner    to 
morrow,"  he  said.     "  He's  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  I'll   find  out  all  about  it." 
43 


"Son" 

Son's  heart  leaped.  He  looked  with  envy 
upon  this  Father  who  to-morrow  could,  by 
himself,  go  to  the  down  town  of  blessed 
memories  and  promise,  where  things  hap 
pened  at  every  moment ;  where  sat  kind  pub 
lishers  who  not  only  printed  the  books  of 
little  boys,  but  showed  them  watches  and 
took  them  home  in  automobiles,  and  where 
Police  Commissioners  stood  ready  to  right 
the  wrongs  of  cruelly  treated  Jims  and  bring 
them  into  their  own  again. 

Son  had  once  penetrated  this  magic  region 
himself,  only  to  be  thrust  back,  kindly  but 
firmly,  into  a  humdrum  existence  of  face- 
washing,  school,  and  park  airings. 

He  was  at  the  front  door  when  Father 
came  in  the  next  evening,  —  had  waited  an 
unconscionable  time,  with  hopeful  face  pressed 
against  the  pane.  Father  held  out  both  hands, 
and  with  Son  at  arm's  length  looked  down  at 
him  anxiously. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  can't  do  anything,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  Too  bad,  old  man." 

Now  Son  had  been  sure  that  all  would  be 
44 


Jim 

well.  He  had  had  no  doubts.  He  forgot  all 
his  dignity,  and  burst  into  a  storm  of  tears 
worthy  of  Baby  in  her  most  unreasonable 
moments.  Nor  could  Father  quiet  him. 
Mathilde  arrived,  and  made  matters  worse 
with  her  chatterings,  and  then  came  Mother, 
who  led  him  upstairs,  put  everybody  out, 
and  undressed  him  herself,  holding  him  in 
her  arms  until  he  sobbed  himself  to  sleep, 
his  hands  clasped  tight  about  her  neck,  so 
tight  that  they  mingled  dainty  collar  and 
soft  hair  in  a  regrettable  tangle. 

When  the  hands  relaxed,  and  Mother  ran 
down  to  her  room,  she  found  that  even  by 
hurrying  she  could  not  escape  being  twenty 
minutes  late  for  dinner.  Yet  she  did  not 
murmur,  though  she  was  punctual,  and  hated 
hurrying  about  things,  —  which  showed  that 
Father  was  not  the  only  one  being  educated. 

"  I  couldn't  tell  him,"  said  Father,  with 
knit  brows,  when  they  were  finally  on  their 
way.  "  And  I  couldn't  lie  to  him,  could  I?  " 

"  No  indeed,"  said  Mother,  "  not  that. 
Never  to  hint" 

45 


"Son" 

Father  looked  relieved. 

"  Reynolds  couldn't  do  anything,  "he  con 
tinued.  "  If  it  had  been  the  first  time,  but  it 
wasn't.  There  was  a  long  record,  and  the 
fellow's  behavior  had  been  overlooked  more 
than  once.  You  see,  he  had  three  medals, 
and  that  helped  him  out.  But  there  must  be 
a  limit.  So  he  was  dismounted.  And  since 
then  he  has  not  once  reported  for  duty.  Rey 
nolds  will  have  to  dismiss  him  from  the 
force." 

They  arrived  at  their  dinner,  and  their 
hostess,  who  had  a  penchant  for  literary  men 
and  who  had  not  met  Father  before,  was 
greatly  disappointed  in  him.  As  for  Mother, 
whom  she  had  met  once  and  had  supposed 
charming,  she  found  her  dull.  Decidedly  they 
were  an  over-rated  couple. 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  Mother  was  prepar 
ing  to  rest  after  lunch,  there  was  a  knock  at 
her  door.  There,  her  face  one  protest,  stood 
Mathilde. 

"  'E  no  more  want  to  go  to  de  park,"  she 
46 


Jim 

began.  "  Every  day  'e  want  to  go  to  Fiftee- 
ninf  Street." 

"  Let  him,"  said  Mother  laconically,  taking 
down  her  hair. 

"  Oui,  Madame,"  murmured  Mathilde  dis 
approvingly.  She  did  not  know  what  had 
come  over  Mother,  who  had  used  to  uphold 
her  authority. 

Mathilde  was  cross,  but  she  went  to  Fifty- 
ninth  Street  At  least  she  did  not  have  to 
drag  Son  along ;  he  walked  with  alacrity. 

Mother  pondered,  brush  in  hand,  for  some 
moments.  Then  she  put  up  her  hair  again 
deftly.  After  which  she  spent  twenty  min 
utes  at  the  telephone,  which  stood  on  a  little 
table  near  at  hand.  She  scrawled  an  address, 
ordered  a  taxicab,  dressed  hastily,  and  went 
in  search  of  Son.  He  was  not  hard  to  find. 
There  he  was  on  Fifth  Avenue  at  the  familiar 
crossing,  with  Mathilde  fussily  feeling  his  ears 
and  admonishing  him  to  stamp  his  feet,  for 
there  was  a  cold  wind  blowing  that  day,  and 
Spring  had  broken  her  promise. 

Son,  unheeding,  had  eyes  for  no  one  but 
47 


"Son" 

Don.  He  did  not  see  Mother  until  Mathilde 
poked  him,  and  forgot  to  take  off  his  cap  as 
he  had  been  taught.  "  Quelles  manieres!" 
lamented  Mathilde,  pulling  it  from  his  head, 
and  putting  it  on  again  with  ungentle  affec- 
tionateness.  He  accepted  reluctantly  Moth 
er's  invitation  to  get  in  beside  her,  but 
when  she  unfolded  her  plan  his  joy  knew  no 
bounds.  Care  left  his  face,  and  he  chattered 
all  the  way  over  to  the  tenement  house  dis 
trict,  watching  the  swarms  of  children  that 
had  to  be  looked  out  for,  the  peanut  venders, 
pushcart  men,  and  peddlers.  Then  they 
stopped. 

"  You  go  up,"  said  Mother.  "  I'll  wait  for 
you  in  the  cab.  It's  on  the  sixth  floor,  back. 
Remember  —  one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six 
—  and  back  !  " 

"  One,"  counted  Son.  "Two  "  breathlessly. 
When  he  got  to  six  he  was  speechless,  so 
great  had  been  his  haste.  "  Back,"  he  told 
himself,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  woman's  voice. 

Son  entered,  and,  being  alone,  remembered 
48 


Jim 

his  manners.  He  took  off  his  cap,  and  his 
eyes  swept  the  room.  Jim  was  not  there. 
But  at  least  he  was  in  communication.  He 
could  give  a  message. 

"  Is  this  Jim's  house?"  he  asked  politely. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  woman  with  curt  sur 
prise.  "  I  suppose  it  is." 

Neither  tone  nor  face  was  prepossessing, 
but  Son  was  not  observing  in  such  matters. 
To  him  the  woman  seemed  very  nice.  She 
had  on  a  white  apron  that  crinkled  when  she 
moved,  and  the  room  smelt  of  soap. 

"  Oh,  will  you  tell  him,"  he  said,  getting 
his  breath  — "  that  I  thought  he'd  know  it 
was  only  me?  —  And  I  didn't  want  him  to 
think  it  was  Don,  really  —  but  I  couldn't 
wake  him  up  any  other  way." 

The  woman  looked  genuinely  puzzled. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  Son  continued,  his  remorse 
all  coming  back  to  him.  "  And  I  wish  I 
could  see  him.  Where  is  he?" 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Then,  "  I  don't 
know,"  answered  the  woman  grimly. 

"  But  he  will  be  in  !  "  cried  Son.  "  He's 
49 


"Son" 

got  to  come  in  for  his  supper,  hasn't 
he?" 

Jim's  wife  looked  about  the  room.  She 
had  made  no  preparation  for  supper.  The 
stove  was  cold. 

"  He  may,"  she  said  slowly.  "  And  he 
may  not." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  will !  "  Son  reassured  her. 
"Everybody  has  to  have  supper.  He'll 
come ! " 

The  woman  made  no  rejoinder,  and  the 
conversation  flagged.  Then  Son  said,  bright 
ening: 

"  Tell  him  I'm  taking  care  of  Don.  I  go 
down  to  the  Plaza  to  see  him  every  day. 
And  sometimes  I  give  him  sugar." 

The  woman  began  to  understand. 

"  Is  Don  his  horse?  "  she  asked. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know?  "  said  Son.  "Jim 
loves  Don  the  best  thing  in  all  the  world. 
He  said,  if  he  had  a  boy  like  me,  he'd  love 
him  best.  But  he  hasn't,  —  so  he  loves  Don. 
Isn't  Jim  splendid?" 

Mrs.  Jim  had  not  been  accustomed  to  re- 
50 


Jim 

garding  her  husband  in  this  light.  She  con 
sidered  herself  a  much  abused  woman.  But 
this  child  seemed  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"Splendid!"  she  said. 

"He  likes  everything  that  /  do,"  Son  chat 
ted  on.  "  Sunsets  and  flowers  —  Oh,  he  loves 
flowers.  He  always  shows  them  to  me  when 
they  are  first  coming  out.  And  he  puts  them 
on  Don's  bridle.  And  he  hasn't  got  Don 
any  more." 

So  Jim  loved  flowers  —  and  sunsets.  Jim's 
wife  was  thinking. 

"  I  can't  stay  any  longer,"  said  Son. 
"  Mother's  waiting.  But  please  —  give  my 
love  to  Jim." 

"  I  will,"  promised  the  woman,  and  opened 
the  door  for  him. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  remained  for  a 
long  time  quite  motionless.  Then  she  hur 
riedly  put  on  her  things  and  went  out  In 
the  street  she  made  some  purchases,  and  was 
coming  back  when  her  eye  was  caught  by 
bright  gleams  of  red,  yellow,  and  purple 
mingled  together  in  a  mass  bizarre  but  beau- 
Si 


"Son" 

tiful.  The  clouds  of  a  gusty  day  had  broken 
open,  and  on  the  narrow  street  gleamed  the 
last  rays  of  the  westering  sun. 

"Sunsets — and  flowers." 

"  Buya  !  Buya  !  "  called  out  the  Italian 
flower-vender,  seeing  the  woman  pause  be 
fore  his  cart.  "  Ecco,  bella !  bella !  —  Tenna 
centa !  "  His  black  eyes  danced,  and  he 
held  out  enticingly  a  red  geranium  in  a  pot. 

Jim's  wife,  guilty  and  ashamed,  hurried 
home,  carrying  the  plant  for  which  she  had 
paid  a  dime  that  could  ill  be  spared. 

The  stove  was  burning  brightly  when  the 
man  came  in,  and  the  kettle  was  on. 

"  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  go  back," 
he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  just  came  in  to  tell  you. 
I'm  going  out  again."  Then  in  dismay  his  eye 
fell  on  a  little  dog  that  had  been  his  compan 
ion  for  many  hours.  It  had  found  him  in  the 
morning,  and  had  followed  him  faithfully  all 
that  day.  He  had  forgotten  it  coming  up 
stairs,  and  its  muddy  footprints  were  already 
visible  on  the  clean  floor.  "  Get  out !  "  he  com 
manded  roughly.  "  You  ain't  wanted  here." 
52 


Jim 

The  little  dog  quivered  and  slunk  towards 
the  door,  heart-broken  at  discovering  harsh 
ness  where  he  had  scented  only  friendli 
ness. 

Then  Jim's  wife  made  her  supreme  effort. 

"  He  can  stay,"  she  said.  "  Here,  doggie, 
doggie !" 

Jim  spent  many  minutes  in  begging  his 
little  friend's  pardon  and  winning  back  his 
confidence.  By  the  time  he  had  accom 
plished  this  and  had  coaxed  the  little  beast 
onto  his  knee,  supper  was  ready.  Jim  drank 
a  great  deal  of  fragrant  coffee,  which  steadied 
his  nerves  and  brought  the  light  back  to  his 
eyes.  The  food  was  very  good,  and  he  ate 
heartily.  Then  he  lighted  his  pipe,  and  sat 
smoking  in  silence.  Presently  he  noticed  the 
red  geranium  in  the  window.  Jim  always 
noticed  things.  He  looked  slowly  from  plant 
to  wife,  from  wife  to  plant.  Then  he  got  up, 
put  the  dog  gently  down  in  his  chair,  hesi 
tated,  and  went  over  to  where  she  stood, 
wiping  dishes. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  trembled. 
53 


"Son" 

It  sounded  like  an  organ  again.  "Mary  — 
What's  come  over  you  ?  " 

"It's  the  little  boy,"  she  answered  simply. 
"He  was  here." 

"Oh,"  said  Jim,  "/see.— Son." 

The  next  afternoon,  when  Son  arrived  at 
his  self-appointed  post,  some  one  who  had 
been  watching  for  him  drew  back  quickly 
into  the  shadow  of  a  building.  It  was  Jim. 
Shaved,  with  his  hair  cut,  and  with  the  whites 
of  his  eyes  so  clear  that  they  looked  blue,  he 
was  pleasant  to  look  upon,  even  in  civilian's 
clothes.  Presently  he  crept  out  part  way 
from  his  hiding-place  and  waited. 

Son  had  been  sternly  keeping  the  usurper 
under  observation,  watching  for  any  sign  of 
inconsiderateness  toward  Don.  Letting  his 
gaze  wander  for  a  moment,  he  saw,  and  with 
a  shout,  terrific  for  one  of  his  size,  made  a 
rush  for  Jim.  All  the  bystanders  smiled,  but 
Jim's  eyes  were  like  bottomless  wells  as  he 
lifted  Son  in  his  arms. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  whispered  Son,  half 
sobbing,  "that  you'd  think  it  was  Don. — 
54 


Jim 

Oh,  Jim  !  That  man  stole  him  !  Why  don't 
you  take  Don  back  when  he  isn't  looking? 
Jim  !  He  isn't  looking  now  /  " 

Son  was  trembling  with  excitement.  Jim 
looked.  The  policeman  had  in  fact  dis 
mounted  and  with  his  back  to  Don,  who  stood 
like  a  horse  of  bronze  in  the  sunlight,  was 
engaged  in  regulating  a  particularly  con 
gested  bit  of  traffic. 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  Son's  mouth 
before  he  was  set  down  quickly,  and  Jim  — 
the  great,  the  splendid  Jim  —  had  shot  into 
the  street,  flung  himself  into  the  saddle,  and 
dashed  madly  down  the  avenue. 

"  He's  got  him  !  "  shrieked  Son.  "  Ma- 
thilde  !  Jim's  got  Don !  "  . 

Mathilde  stood  quite  still  and  white,  both 
hands  over  her  eyes;  then,  very  gently  for 
her,  she  took  Son  home. 

She  had  seen  what  Son  had  been  too  ab 
sorbed  to  see,  what  Jim  had  seen  with  those 
eyes  of  his  that  were  so  clear  to-day.  And 
she  dared  not  wait  for  the  outcome. 

While  Son  had  been  in  Jim's  arms,  down 
55 


"Son" 

the  avenue,  swaying  fearfully,  was  coming  a 
runabout  drawn  by  a  pair  of  maddened  trot 
ters.  The  reins  were  in  the  hands  of  an  old 
man,  who  with  set  face  held  them  in  the  piti 
ful  grip  of  threescore  years  and  ten.  Jim 
caught  the  gleam  of  white  hair  for  one  dread 
ful  flash.  Vehicles  scattered  to  right  and 
left,  somehow  clearing  a  path.  But  ahead — 
one  block,  two  blocks  —  Jim  didn't  know — 
was  a  huge  truck,  headed  down  town.  The 
driver,  unconscious  of  the  confusion  and 
shouting,  kept  on  his  way. 

In  mid-gallop  Jim  leaned  over  and  whis 
pered  in  Don's  ear.  Don  was  gaining;  he 
was  abreast  of  the  insane  horses ;  the  three 
were  going  neck  and  neck — Don  was  ahead 
—  and  Jim  was  off —  down  —  on  his  feet,  in 
front —  had  seized  a  rein  in  each  iron  hand — 
was  swept  under,  never  relaxing  his  hold  — 
Oh,  blessed  weight  of  Jim  !  Big  Jim  !  They 
were  slowing  up  —  they  were  standing  still  — 
and  in  the  nick  of  time.  Don  was  standing 
too,  waiting  for  orders. 

"  All  right,  sir?  "  said  Jim,  pushing  through 
56 


Jim 

the  crowd  and  looking  anxiously  at  his  old 
man. 

Then,  because  he  was  so  embarrassed  by 
the  things  the  latter  had  begun  to  say  to 
him,  he  muttered  an  excuse,  swung  himself 
once  more  into  the  saddle,  and  headed  up 
town. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Jack,"  he  said  heartily  to  his 
fellow  officer  when  he  had  reached  Fifty- 
ninth  Street,  "  but  I  didn't  have  time  to  give 
you  the  chance.  Here's  your  horse." 

"  Not  on  your  life,  Jim  !  "  said  the  other. 
"  I  guess  I  can  walk  until  they  find  me 
another  nag." 

But  Jim  had  already  dismounted  and,  lay 
ing  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  shoulder 
of  his  fellow,  he  went  away. 

Poor  Son  !  The  excitement  of  that  after 
noon  had  proved  too  much  for  him,  and  it 
was  three  long  days  before  he  went  to  the 
park.  When  the  afternoon  came,  he  could 
hardly  bear  the  joyful  anticipation.  This 
time  there  was  to  be  no  disappointment. 
57 


"Son" 

There  they  were,  on  the  accustomed  drive — 
Don  and  Jim. 

The  instant  Jim  caught  sight  of  Son,  he 
swung  himself  off. 

"  Want  to  ride?  "  he  suggested 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Son.  "  It's  a  high 
up." 

"  So  it  is,"  agreed  Jim.  "  Too  high. 
Come,  and  I'll  show  you  where  there  are  lots 
of  violets  coming  out." 

"  Oh,  good !  "  cried  Son,  clapping  his 
hands.  "  Violets  are  my  favorite  flowers. 
What  are  yours?" 

"  Mine  are  red  geraniums,"  said  Jim. 


THE   LITTLE   CLOWN 


THE    LITTLE    CLOWN 


IT  was  the  kind  of  March  day  that  makes 
one  feel  as  though  the  whole  world  had 
come  alive.  The  trees  were  swishing  on  up 
per  Fifth  Avenue,  each  twig  glittering  in  the 
brazen  sunlight  and  seeming  to  call  out,  "  I'm 
going  to  bud  by  and  by !  Yes,  I  am  !  " 

The  sky  was  so  blue  that  if  one  thought  of 
clouds  at  all  it  was  as  things  he  might  have 
read  about,  perhaps,  but  could  never  by  any 
possibility  have  seen.  No  cloud  would  dare 
show  its  face  on  such  a  sky ! 

Not  on  this  day !  For  Son  was  going  to 
the  circus.  Father  was  taking  him,  and  so 
hastily  had  Son  gulped  down  his  mid-day 
meal  that  there  was  plenty  of  time  for  this 
walk  to  the  Plaza  with  lungs  full  of  the  riotous 
holiday  air,  before  turning  east  and  board 
ing  a  street  car,  fit  conveyance  for  unaccom 
panied  males.  Son  felt  as  though  his  chest 
61 


"Son" 

expanded  several  inches  by  the  time  he  was 
holding  on  to  the  seam  of  Father's  overcoat, 
wondering  whether  the  proud  day  would  ever 
come  when  he  should  be  tall  enough  to  hang 
by  a  strap. 

Such  of  his  fellow  passengers  as  he  could 
see  through  small  gaps  between  skirts,  coats, 
and  bundles,  filled  him  with  pity.  That  fat 
woman  who  looked  as  though  she  was  think 
ing  of  nothing  at  all,  —  how  her  face  would 
kindle  could  Son  whisper  in  her  ear,  "  Come 
with  me  to  the  circus " !  And  that  boy, 
wedged  in  between  the  two  old  men —  he 
was  not  going!  If  Son  could  have  invited 
him,  his  jaws  must  have  snapped,  ceasing 
instantly  their  uninterested  and  continuous 
gum-chewing.  All,  old  and  young,  pro 
ceeded  phlegmatically  toward  their  various 
destinations,  unconscious,  apparently,  that 
there  are  moments  in  life  to  make  hearts 
pound  and  pulses  quicken. 

Father's  eyes  travelled  from  Son's  small 
set  face  to  the  tiny  white  sailor-trousered 
legs  below  his  pea-jacket.  "  I  wonder  whether 
62 


The  Little  Clown 

he  is  enjoying  himself,"  he  thought.  Aloud 
he  said,  "  Come  along !  "  for  they  were  about 
to  arrive  at  their  destination.  What  inept 
remarks  grown-up  people  made !  Son  shot 
ahead,  prevented  only  by  the  conductor's 
restraining  hand  from  hurling  himself  to  the 
sidewalk  before  the  car  had  stopped. 

In  with  a  crowd,  past  the  taker  of  tickets, 
and  Son's  identity  was  lost  in  an  immensity  so 
vast  as  to  daze  him.  If  there  were  empty 
spaces  in  the  rows  of  seats  that  rose  tier  on 
tier  toward  the  great  dome,  he  did  not  see 
them.  The  amphitheatre  appeared  to  him 
to  be  packed  with  a  waiting  multitude, — 
faces  without  features,  as  he  was  accustomed 
to  draw  them  when  he  sat  down  with  pad  and 
pencil,  feeling  that  as  he  could  not  convey 
the  concrete  impression  he  desired,  he  could 
suggest  it  by  a  blank  that  allowed  the  imagi 
nation  scope.  His  feet  fell  soundless  on  the 
tan  bark.  Down  from  a  great  height  came 
dim  and  filtered  sunbeams,  and  millions  of 
tiny  particles  of  dust,  revolving,  rose  up  to 
meet  them. 

63 


"Son" 

There  was  an  all-pervading  smell  that, 
though  not  pleasing,  was  inspiring  to  Son 
inasmuch  as  it  suggested  savagery  and  the 
jungle.  He  thought  regretfully  of  the  sign 
they  had  just  passed,  with  a  painted  hand 
pointing.  Though  he  could  not  read,  it  said 
to  him  as  plain  as  day,  "This  way  to  the 
animals."  It  would  have  been  good  to  hear 
a  few  comfortable  roars !  Somewhere  before 
he  had  known  this  sensation  of  being  swal 
lowed  up — it  was  coming  back  to  him  with 
a  sinking  of  the  heart — those  nights  of  fever 
last  year,  when  church  bells  had  tolled  all  the 
time,  and  he  had  seen  at  the  end  of  immense 
distances  something  very  Big,  which  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  just  as  it  was  going 
to  close  down  on  him,  dwindled  fearfully  into 
something  Tiny. 

A  blatant  sound  smote  his  ear,  putting  in 
trospection  to  flight  —  the  band,  whose  efforts, 
just  begun,  were  to  continue  without  let  up 
the  whole  performance  through.  The  ceil 
ing  lowered  itself,  the  tiers  of  seats  drew  to 
gether  a  little,  and  as  things  began  to  assume 
64 


The  Little  Clown 

more  natural  proportions  Son  ceased  to  feel 
so  small. 

He  could  have  screamed  in  terror  when  a 
smiling  official  took  their  checks  and  slouched 
ahead  of  them  toward  the  boxes,  for  the  way 
led  right  through  the  arena.  To  be  sure,  it 
was  still  empty,  but  at  any  moment  now  it 
might  be  brilliant  with  panoplied  chargers 
ridden  by  glittering  ladies  —  he  clung  to  Fa 
ther's  hand,  expecting  the  thunder  of  oncom 
ing  chariots,  which  should  grind  him  to  powder 
beneath  their  golden  wheels. 

"  In  here,"  the  official's  voice  drawled,  put 
ting  an  end  to  his  fears. 

Father  had  bought  two  seats  in  a  box,  and 
the  girl  with  the  green  feather  in  her  hat,  who 
with  her  escort  had  arrived  before  them  and 
was  installed  in  front,  obligingly  moved  back. 

"  Ain't  he  cute?  "  she  said. 

Son  looked  intently,  but  did  not  perceive 
anything.  How  suggestive  of  glories  to  come 
was  the  empty  arena !  For  years  after  this 
day,  the  smell  of  tan-bark  carried  with  it  for 
him  a  hush  of  anticipation. 

65 


"Son" 

Ah!     At  last! 

Through  slow-swung  doors  the  procession 
was  coming.  Son  had  no  sooner  adjusted 
his  mind  to  elephants,  whose  deliberate  tread 
of  huge  feet  moved  all  the  little  wrinkles  in 
their  skins,  than  they  turned  into  ponies  pat 
tering  along  with  eyes  askance  and  much 
shaking  of  silky  manes ;  these  again  into  men 
—  real  men  whom  Son  could  have  touched, 
so  close  was  he  —  Phoenician  with  blue-black 
curling  beard  succeeding  dusky  African, 
mounted  guard  in  clinking  armor  giving 
place  to  trumpeter  who  puffed  out  his  cheeks 
as  though  preparing  to  blow  great  blasts  on 
his  trumpet,  from  which,  however,  no  sound 
came. 

Son  had  looked  at  details  until  his  head 
swam  and  things  had  begun  to  run  together 
before  his  eyes,  like  the  bits  of  mercury  he 
had  collected  when  the  nursery  thermometer 
broke.  He  put  his  hands  before  his  eyes  for 
a  minute  and  made  everything  dark  save  for 
tiny  red  stars  and  mysterious  flashes;  then 
he  took  them  down,  and  lo !  he  could  grasp 
66 


The  Little  Clown 

the  pageant  as  a  whole.  Elephants  existed 
as  elephants  no  longer,  men  were  not  individ 
uals  any  more,  but  each  formed  part  of  a 
marvellous  moving  picture  of  the  East,  re 
vealed  to  him  in  undreamed-of  splendor. 

Slowly  the  great  procession  drew  itself  out, 
flashing  and  glimmering  like  the  coils  of  a 
monstrous  snake.  Barbaric  colors  smote  the 
sight  no  longer  as  purple,  silver,  green,  and 
gold,  but  blended  in  one  harmonious  whole. 

Son's  gaze  fixed  itself  on  the  door  which 
was  beginning  to  engulf  the  glittering  monster 
that  writhed  slowly  through.  He  longed  to 
penetrate  the  enchanted  region  beyond, 
where  sentinels  paced  forever,  archers  shot  at 
a  mark,  dancing  girls  swayed,  and  pages  sat 
looking  on,  elbows  on  velvet  knees. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  Father  asked.  It 
was  against  his  will  that  his  voice  habitually 
softened  in  speaking  to  Son,  for  he  had 
theories,  and  one  of  them  was  that  a  boy 
should  be  handled  without  gloves.  When  he 
was  six,  he  was  leader  of  a  gang,  and  used 
to  play  baseball  in  the  street.  At  least 
67 


"Son" 

he  remembered  distinctly  the  leadership  and 
the  ball  games  —  and  six  was  about  the  right 
age,  he  thought 

"  Here  come  the  elephants,"  he  went  on 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  his  question. 

Son  determined  to  watch  only  one  ring. 
Yet  his  eyes  turned  from  middle  to  right, 
back  to  middle  and  to  left,  so  afraid  was  he 
of  losing  some  wonderful  feat  of  these  ex 
traordinary  pachyderms. 

No  sooner  had  the  elephants  disappeared 
than  uniformed  attendants  busied  themselves 
on  the  run  to  set  everything  in  order.  Son 
marvelled  at  their  zeal.  He  had  never  seen 
housework  done  in  such  fashion  at  home. 
He  thought  of  the  new  useful  man,  who  never 
cleaned  the  windows,  though  it  had  been 
thoroughly  understood,  Mother  said,  that  this 
was  expected  of  him  —  and  no  wonder ! 
What  uninspiring  toil,  the  polishing  of  win 
dows  !  Put  him  here,  in  a  green  suit  with  red 
epaulettes,  and  he  would  soon  show  what 
stuff  he  was  made  of. 

Son  did  not  tire  as  the  afternoon  wore  on. 
68 


The  Little  Clown 

Father's  offers  of  peanuts  and  popcorn 
tempted  him  sorely,  but  in  matters  pertaining 
to  the  stomach  he  had  long  since  found  it 
wise  to  take  his  orders  from  Mother.  He 
had  watched  the  horses  faithfully,  in  order  to 
be  able  to  repeat  to  Baby  a  list  of  their  per 
formances  down  to  the  last  detail,  well  know 
ing  that  for  this  part  of  the  show  she  would 
hold  him  strictly  to  account. 

To  Father's  disappointment  he  had  hardly 
noticed  the  trapeze  performers  at  all.  They 
hung  and  balanced,  revolved  and  swung,  at 
such  a  height  above  him  as  to  seem  remote 
as  birds  in  a  summer  sky.  He  was  at  the  age 
when  one  looks  at  things  nearer — the  butter 
cup  at  one's  feet  rather  than  the  mountains 
above  it.  There  were  so  many  near  things 
to  look  at !  Little  dogs  that  lay  down  and 
died,  coming  to  life  again  at  the  next  instant 
and  trotting  cheerfully  on  their  way  with 
uplifted  tails;  seals  that  flopped  wetly  by 
methods  known  only  to  themselves  onto  the 
backs  of  horses,  where  they  hung  without 
falling  off,  awaiting  confidently  the  delicious 
69 


"Son" 

morsel  that  inevitably  followed  a  successful 
achievement;  boys  not  much  bigger  than 
Son,  who  turned  handsprings  and  cartwheels 
without  number  as  though  theirs  were  the 
only  natural  method  of  getting  over  the 
ground ;  pigeons,  who  settled  themselves  on 
a  charger's  head  as  if  they  had  never  heard 
of  a  barn  roof  for  roosting  purposes. 

It  flashed  through  Son's  dizzy  brain  that 
this  was  reality  and  things  as  he  had  known 
them  before — dreams.  He  felt  sure  that  had 
he  brought  with  him  their  old  fat  Cocker-span 
iel,  over-indulged  by  a  soft-hearted  cook  and 
snoring  his  existence  away  under  the  kitchen 
stove,  and  turned  him  loose  among  these 
creatures,  he  likewise  would  have  begun  to 
perform,  amid  the  admiring  cheers  of  the 
spectators. 

Son  was  delighted  with  the  antics  of  the 
clowns.  Just  as  he  could  listen  without  a 
tremor  to  any  story  of  ogre  and  goblin, 
reeked  it  never  so  horribly  of  gore,  so  the 
horseplay  of  these  Punchinellos  come  to 
life  seemed  to  him  the  highest  art. 
70 


The  Little  Clown 

"  There's  a  funny  one !  "  came  from  the 
girl  with  the  green  feather.  "  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  get  up  ?  " 

Son  heartily  agreed.  The  clown  she  meant 
was  lithe  and  springy,  and  under  an  abbrevi 
ated  ballet  skirt  his  muscular  legs  pirouetted 
with  no  mean  skill.  He  held  coquettishly 
above  his  head  a  tiny  pink  parasol.  "  What 
a  good  time  he's  having ! "  thought  Son, 
smiling.  Just  then  his  eyes  caught  those  of 
a  little  clown  who  was  passing  by.  They 
were  gray,  clear  eyes,  unspoiled  by  the  painted 
lines  about  them.  They  met  Son's  squarely, 
with  an  open  and  pleasant  look.  He  had,  to 
be  sure,  a  painted  face  with  red  blotches,  a 
pair  of  baggy  pantaloons,  and  the  regulation 
peaked  cap,  but  no  art  could  have  given  him 
those  thousand  good-humored  lines  about  a 
mouth  made  for  kindliness  and  laughter. 
That  was  pure  nature.  So  attentively  did  he 
observe  the  play  of  his  fellows,  following 
their  hits  with  many  an  impulsive  gesture 
of  appreciation,  that  before  long  he  began  to 
be  the  centre  of  attraction.  The  other  clowns 

71 


"Son" 

had  been  received  good-naturedly,  too,  but 
everybody  liked  this  one  best. 

Shuffling  along  in  his  wake  came  presently 
a  great,  lanky  clown,  who  gazed  solemnly 
into  vacancy.  Several  feet  away  he  halted, 
and  extending  deliberately  a  long  thin  arm, 
snapped  the  other's  peaked  cap  from  his  head. 
It  turned  over  and  over  like  a  live  thing  be 
fore  it  finally  stopped  and  lay  quiet  a  long 
way  off.  Loud  laughter  rang  from  the  gal 
lery.  Son  joined  in,  holding  his  sides  until 
he  caught  sight  of  the  little  clown's  face.  He 
saw  all  the  little  lines  of  merriment  about  the 
mouth  wiped  out  like  figures  on  a  slate.  He 
saw  the  crow's  feet  around  the  eyes  smooth 
themselves  away.  Slowly,  one  by  one,  the 
thousand  delicate  and  elusive  nothings  that 
make  a  smile  disappeared.  Then  he  saw  the 
mouth  begin  to  droop  ever  so  little  at  the 
corners.  The  expression  was  that  of  a  small 
child  bullied  by  a  big  one.  The  eyes  were 
raised  to  the  tormentor's  great  height,  and 
then  —  why,  the  little  clown  was  crying. 

"  Er  hat  mir  minerr  hat  off  ge-knocked  !  " 
72 


The  Little  Clown 

he  sobbed.  "  Oh,  what  shall  I  make  ?  And 
out-ge-laughed  to  be  from  all  people,  —  wie 
kommt  das  schwar !  " 

That  anyone  should  be  made  so  unhappy 
in  this  place  of  delight  was  not  to  be  borne. 
Son  leaned  far  out  over  the  rail  and  called 
beseechingly : 

"  Look  !  Oh,  please  look,  dear  little  clown  ! 
Here's  somebody  who's  not  laughing !  " 

The  band  was  playing  very  loud,  and  no 
one  could  hear  the  shaking  tones  —  the 
clown  least  of  all,  for  he  was  walking  away 
with  heavy  feet  and  drooping  shoulders  to 
ward  the  insulted  hat. 

The  next  half-hour  was  as  full  of  misery 
for  Son  as  the  preceding  ones  had  been  of 
joy,  for  he  had  to  see  the  wretched  mummery 
repeated  at  least  six  times  at  different  ranges 
of  vision.  It  was  not  so  bad  while  the  two 
figures  gesticulated  like  puppets  of  a  Punch 
and  Judy  show,  but  when  they  came  nearer, 
and  he  could  once  more  see  them  as  men 
and  not  as  dolls,  he  could  bear  the  strain  no 
longer. 

73 


"Son" 

For  the  seventh  and  last  time  the  incident 
was  about  to  be  repeated,  and  directly  in 
front  of  Son's  box.  Oh,  the  poor  little  clown ! 
He  was  so  confiding !  And  he  had  thought 
each  time  that  his  troubles  were  over,  and 
had  gone  rejoicing  on  his  way !  He  was  a 
foreigner,  too — just  come  over,  probably, 
since  he  spoke  so  little  English.  That  big 
fellow  was  a  coward  !  Son  wanted  to  run 
out  and  beat  him  with  his  hands.  His  sense 
of  hospitality  was  outraged.  Once  more  his 
heart  stood  still.  The  churl  was  creeping  up 
behind  the  back  of  his  unsuspecting  mate ;  a 
stealthy  arm  was  extended  and  —  off  blew 
the  conical  hat  again.  At  the  same  instant 
a  childish  voice  cried  out  firmly,  determined 
to  be  heard  this  time : 

"  Never  mind  him,  little  clown  !  Here's  a 
hat  for  you !  " 

Father,  startled,  saw  Son  holding  out  in 
both  hands  his  little  sailor  cap  of  blue  cloth. 

"  Son !  "  he  began  hastily.  "  Have  you 
lost  your  —  " 

He  stopped  short,  for  the  little  clown  some- 
74 


The  Little  Clown 

how  managed  to  tell  him  that  it  was  all  right. 
This  would  not  have  surprised  his  fellows,  to 
whom  Kent  Von  Hergberg  was  known  as  the 
quickest  clown  in  the  circus. 

After  a  moment  of  surprise,  not  long 
enough  for  a  little  boy  to  notice,  he  had 
taken  the  cap  out  of  the  eager  hands  and 
was  holding  it  as  if  it  were  some  very  pre 
cious  and  breakable  thing.  Next  he  came 
quite  close  to  the  box  rail  and  stood  with 
wistful  chin  uplifted  toward  Son.  Then,  as 
if  remembering  all  of  a  sudden,  he  tossed  the 
cap  high  in  air  with  a  joyous  shout,  so  that 
the  beautifully  stamped  letters,  "  U.  S.  S. 
Valiant"  mingled  in  a  whir  of  gold,  caught 
it,  clapped  it  onto  the  top  of  his  head,  where 
it  stuck  no  one  knows  how,  and  without  so 
much  as  a  "  Thank  you  "  danced  off  past  the 
boxes  and  made  the  entire  circuit  of  the 
arena  before  he  disappeared  behind  the  mys 
terious  door.  As  for  the  big  one,  he  followed 
at  a  respectful  distance,  skulking  wofully. 
The  conical  cap  was  left  unheeded  where  it 
had  fallen,  and  was  presently  swept  up  by  one 
75 


"Son" 

of  the  attendants,  who  was  rushing  about 
assiduously  with  broom  and  dustpan. 

Father,  leading  Son  out  with  the  crowd, 
was  suddenly  bumped  into  —  quite  unneces 
sarily,  he  thought. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir !  "  some  one  said. 

He  looked  down,  and  there  at  his  elbow 
was  a  small  man  in  neat  blue  serge,  smiling 
irresistibly  and  making  signs. 

"  Here's  his  cap  —  don't  let  him  know," 
he  whispered  with  a  slight  accent  but  in  ex 
cellent  English. 

Father  took  it  and  slipped  it  into  his 
pocket,  with  a  glance  at  Son's  smooth  bare 
head. 

"Why  does  he  let  that  child  go  around 
without  a  hat?  So  conspicuous!"  he  heard 
some  one  whisper  in  the  street  car,  and  he 
rather  wished  he  had  called  a  taxi.  But  to  do 
Father  justice,  that  was  only  because  he  was 
afraid  Son  would  take  cold. 

He  might  have  spared  himself  this  anxiety. 
In  Son's  exhilarated  state  catching  cold  was 
not  in  the  realm  of  possibilities.  He  glowed 
76 


The  Little  Clown 

all  over.  It  was  so  irritating  to  have  your 
hat  knocked  off!  Only  that  week  some  boys 
had  played  that  trick  on  him.  Baby's  nurse 
had  said  he  mustn't  mind.  But  he  had 
minded !  And  that  was  only  once,  while 
the  little  clown,  too  small  to  defend  himself, 
had  been  subjected  to  the  indignity  over  and 
over.  But  now  —  never  again  ! 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  Son  went  to  the 
park  in  the  morning  longing  for  fresh  excite^ 
ment.  He  forgot  to  play,  and  found  himself 
gazing  anxiously  up  and  down  the  walks  of 
the  Mall,  his  glance  stopping  at  every  bench. 
It  was  absurd !  He  had  never  encountered 
a  clown  in  the  park.  But,  after  all,  why 
shouldn't  one  come  there  once  in  a  while? 
He  had  seen  Santa  Claus  plenty  of  times  at 
Christmas  standing  soberly  in  the  light  of 
every  day,  shaking  a  tambourine  or  keeping 
guard  over  a  toy  chimney  on  a  tripod,  for 
pennies.  Then  why  not  a  clown,  on  a  spring 
Sunday,  when  the  circus  wasn't  working,  and 
there  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do? 

Idling  along  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 

77 


"Son" 

Son's  heart  suddenly  leaped  into  his  mouth. 
Surely,  behind  that  tree  —  that  was  he !  He 
waited,  confidently  expecting  him  to  creep 
out,  shaking  a  playful  finger.  It  took  so 
long  that  Son  could  not  endure  the  suspense, 
so  he  stole  up  softly  on  tiptoe,  and  clasping 
his  hands  about  the  venerable  trunk,  peered 
stealthily  around  it.  Nothing  was  there. 
What  he  had  seen  moving  was  but  the  shadow 
of  the  branches  that  swayed  in  the  breeze. 
He  went  home,  and  his  heart  was  heavy  with 
a  sense  of  disillusion. 

It  was  Mathilde's  Sunday  out,  and  he  had 
looked  forward  to  walking  in  the  afternoon 
with  Baby  and  her  nurse,  both  persons  of 
sense.  He  was  going  to  tell  them  all  about 
yesterday's  horses.  But  when  the  time  came, 
Baby  seemed  listless,  and  it  was  decreed  that 
she  must  stay  at  home. 

Son  was  sent  back  to  the  park  with  the 
housemaid,  who  had  just  given  notice  and 
was  going  away  next  week  to  be  married.  In 
unsocial  mood  she  sought  out  an  unfre 
quented  corner  of  the  ramble,  and  as  the  air 
73 


The  Little  Clown 

was  warm  threw  herself  on  a  bench,  opened  a 
book  she  had  brought  with  her,  and  was 
soon  completely  absorbed  in  a  story  suited  to 
her  state  of  mind.  Son,  left  to  his  own  de 
vices,  regarded  her  gravely  for  a  moment, 
pondering  on  the  unpleasant  transformation 
wrought  in  even  the  most  sane  persons  by 
falling  in  love.  Then  he  wandered  off.  He 
hardly  knew  how  far  he  went,  still  looking 
for  a  possible  clown. 

He  ought  not  to  have  expected  him  in  the 
morning !  It  was  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  that 
clowns  came  to  the  park.  Everybody  came 
then !  Weary  mothers,  with  dragging  feet 
and  wan  faces  that  yet  had  smiles  for  the 
babes  in  their  arms ;  pinched  children  with 
greedy  eyes  spying  out  anything  that  was 
beginning  to  bud,  looking  about  warily  for 
"  cops  "  before  they  snatched  at  the  forbidden 
treasure ;  whole  families  of  little  ones  unac 
companied,  and  holding  each  other  by  the 
hands  for  fear  of  getting  separated,  many 
looking,  alas !  as  if  they  had  been  housed 
the  whole  winter  through. 
79 


"Son" 

Son  was  so  glad  that  they  were  out  at  last ! 
Mathilde  always  grumbled  at  the  park  on 
such  days,  saying  it  was  no  place  for  him, 
but  the  more  crowded  it  was,  the  better  he 
liked  it.  It  was  good  to  see  the  tiniest  ones 
sniffing  the  sweet  air,  and  to  hear  them  crow 
at  the  carriages  and  motors  that  went  roll 
ing  by. 

Son,  trotting  along,  always  keeping  a  sharp 
lookout,  did  not  notice  a  small  man  coming 
toward  him,  evidently  watching  for  some  one 
too.  This  person,  after  spending  a  fruitless 
hour  in  the  Mall,  had  sought  out  these  rest 
ful  by-paths  because  he  was  weary  of  so 
much  humanity.  When  he  caught  sight  of 
Son,  his  face  lighted  up  in  one  flash  of  joy. 
But  he  drew  back  behind  some  bushes  and 
bided  his  time. 

It  was  tiresome  work,  this  waiting  for 
clowns  who  never  came.  And  there  was  no 
one  to  play  with.  Son,  with  a  little  sigh, 
took  his  ball  out  of  his  pocket  and  began  to 
throw  it  into  the  air  and  catch  it  again.  He 
was  not  very  skilful,  and  presently  it  slipped 
80 


The  Little  Clown 

away  and  rolled  a  long  distance  down  the 
walk.  Here  was  the  man's  chance.  He 
picked  up  the  ball  and  made  ready  to  toss  it. 

"  Catch ! "  he  said  in  an  encouraging  voice 
with  pleasant  inflection. 

Son  put  out  his  hands,  palms  upward  in 
nursery  fashion  —  and  missed. 

"  That's  not  the  way,"  said  the  man,  com 
ing  up.  "  Look !  Like  this  !  " 

And  in  twenty  minutes  he  had  taught  Son 
as  much  about  ball-playing  as  even  Father 
could  have  known  in  his  gilded  youth.  It 
was  a  royal  game  they  had. 

"  I  can't  do  any  more  !  "  panted  Son  finally, 
rosy  and  laughing.  So  they  changed  to  hop 
scotch,  for  which  his  accommodating  pocket 
provided  a  piece  of  chalk. 

Son  burst  into  a  peal  of  merriment  when 
the  man's  turn  came*. 

"  You  jump  just  like  a  kangaroo !  "  he 
cried.  "Doesn't  he?" 

This  remark  was  addressed  to  a  group  of 
Italian  children  who  had  come  up,  chattering 
like  little  monkeys,  and  were  now  standing  in 
81 


"Son" 

an  admiring  circle  around  the  intrepid  pair 
who  had  dared  to  make  chalk  marks  on  other 
ground  than  that  set  apart  for  such  purposes. 
They  smiled  and  nodded  when  Son  appealed 
to  them,  their  responsive  faces  full  of  pleasure. 
When  Son  sank  down  on  a  bench,  followed 
by  the  man,  and  there  was  promise  of  no 
more  amusement,  they  stood  for  an  instant 
wide-eyed  and  then  scampered  off. 

"  A  rivederci ! "  they  called  in  their  musi 
cal  tones,  waving  back  over  their  shoulders. 

The  confidence  begun  in  play  was  increased 
by  the  meeting  of  eyes.  Surely  those  were 
not  the  eyes  of  a  stranger !  Son  was  con 
vinced  that  he  had  looked  into  them  before. 
But  where?  When?  He  gave  it  up,  and 
began  at  once  to  talk  to  this  new  friend  on 
the  subject  nearest  his  heart.  That  a  man  so 
full  of  general  information  should  know  all 
about  the  circus  seemed  perfectly  natural  to 
him. 

He  learned  what  circus  folk  did  on  Tues 
days, —  how  they  exchanged  stories,  sitting 
around  in  the  big  dressing-room  on  boxes 
82 


The  Little  Clown 

and  trunks;  how  sociable  they  were,  and 
how  kindly,  and  how  they  thrilled  to  the 
applause  which  was  the  breath  of  life  to  them. 
It  was  for  this,  he  said,  that  the  trapeze  per 
formers  risked  their  lives  cheerfully  twice  a 
day,  and  for  this,  too,  that  a  mere  boy  made 
the  high  dive  from  the  dome,  well  knowing 
the  chances  to  be  one  in  twenty  that  he  would 
be  killed  before  the  year  was  out. 

Of  Son's  clown  he  seemed  reluctant  to 
talk  at  first,  merely  vouchsafing  the  informa 
tion  that  he  had  come  from  somewhere  across 
the  sea  in  a  great  big  ship. 

"  Are  you  his  friend  ?  "  Son  asked. 

"  I  may  not  be  much  of  a  friend  to  him," 
was  the  smiling  answer,  "  but  I  know  him 
about  as  well  as  anybody." 

"  Why  did  he  come?"  asked  Son. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  answered  the  man,  "  laugh- 
making  is  his  living,  and  he  was  afraid  he 
might  forget  it  over  there." 

"Was  he  unhappy?" 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  the  man  said,  "  he 
was  the  happiest  little  clown  that  ever  lived. 
83 


"Son" 

The  very  happiest !     For  he  had  a  beautiful 
little  wife." 

"Did  she  belong  to  the  circus?"  asked 
Son. 

"  Sure,  she  did !  "  replied  the  man,  "  and 
wore  spangles  and  rode  a  white  pony.  But 
by  and  by  she  went  away." 

"Went  away!"  Son  was  incredulous. 
"Did  the  clown  go  too?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  "She  left  him 
something  to  take  care  of  for  her,"  the  man 
replied. 

"  The  white  pony  !  "  guessed  Son. 

"Better  than  that,"  said  the  man.  Then, 
anxious  to  divert  the  conversation,  "  But  he 
did  keep  the  pony,  and  whenever  he  had 
time  he  used  to  go  to  the  railroad  station  and 
buy  a  ticket  and  travel  to  the  place  where  it 
was.  He  would  walk  miles  through  the 
country,  and  when  he  came  to  the  field  where 
he  kept  it  turned  out,  he  would  stand  for 
hours  against  the  fence,  watching  it  frisk 
about  and  whisk  away  the  flies  with  its  great, 
long  tail." 

84 


The  Little  Clown 

"Did  he  bring  them  to  America — the 
pony  and  the  present  the  lady  left?" 

"  No,"  said  the  man. 

"  Then  he  hadn't  anything !  "  Son  cried. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  was  the  quick  reply,  "  he  had 
the  spangled  dress  in  his  trunk ! " 

Then  Son  wanted  to  hear  all  about  the  big 
clown  who  would  never  dare  bother  the  little 
one  any  more.  So  they  talked  on  and 
on. 

Squirrels  scolded  them  occasionally,  look 
ing  down  from  the  trees  with  bright,  inquisi 
tive  eyes,  and  birds  hopped  up  quite  close  to 
their  feet,  flew  off,  hoped  they  had  been  mis 
taken  in  thinking  that  the  two  on  the  bench 
had  nothing  to  feed  them  with,  and  came 
back  to  try  again. 

They  were  interrupted  at  last  by  the  de 
linquent  housemaid,  for  whom  Son  had  un 
wittingly  provided  a  very  unpleasant  half-hour. 
She  had  continued  her  reading  until  the  last 
page  of  the  book,  had  suppressed  a  desire  to 
go  back  to  the  beginning  without  looking  up, 
and,  having  regretfully  closed  the  enticing 
85 


"Son" 

volume,  had  glanced  about  vaguely  for  her 
charge. 

There  he  was  at  length,  in  absorbed  con 
versation  with  a  little,  strange  man,  —  and  no 
harm  done.  So  great  was  her  relief  that 
when  the  man  arose,  uttered  a  few  whispered 
words  in  her  ear,  took  Son's  hand  in  his  and 
started  toward  home  with  him,  she  was 
quite  ready  to  follow  meekly  a  few  yards 
behind. 

Son  did  not  notice  whither  he  was  being  led, 
nor  how  the  walks  had  begun  to  clear  them 
selves  of  children,  all  hurrying  home  eastward 
through  the  streets.  For  his  mind  was  else 
where,  among  the  gay  scenes  of  the  day 
before,  and  he  was  learning  that  clowns  must 
keep  very  close  out  of  working  hours,  else 
no  one  would  buy  tickets  to  see  them  in  the 
show. 

"  Why,  here  we  are !  "  said  Son,  waking 
up  in  front  of  his  own  home. 

When  the  door  was  opened  in  response  to 
their  ring,  Father  was  in  the  front  hall  taking 
off  his  hat  and  coat. 

86 


The  Little  Clown 

Son  was  not  surprised  at  the  cordial  greet 
ing  between  the  two  men.  It  was  right  that 
they  should  like  each  other  —  these  two,  both 
of  whom  were  so  worthy,  and  whom  chance 
had  brought  together. 

"  Won't  you  come  in?  "  urged  Father. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  sir,  thank  you,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you 
did  not  mind,"  he  added  anxiously,  lowering 
his  voice,  "  my  coming  to  the  door  with  him. 
I  was  looking  for  him  all  the  afternoon.  And 
when  I  found  him,  I  wanted  to  see  where  he 
lived,  so  that  I  could  remember  —  after  I 
went  away." 

Father  looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  long 
minute. 

"Why  don't  you  go  into  vaudeville?"  he 
then  asked  abruptly.  "  It  pays  better !  I 
could  help  you  to  an  opening !  " 

The  man  only  smiled. 

"  You're   very   kind,"   he    presently    said, 

"  but  I'd  rather  stick  to  the  circus.     I  was 

bringing  my  boy  up  for  it.     He  was  just  his 

age.     I  was  going  to  make  a  clown  of  him. 

87 


"Son" 

And  as  for  the  money,"  he  added,  "I  don't 
need  so  much  —  just  for  myself." 

Father  said  no  more,  but  wrung  his  hand. 

Then  the  man  took  a  long  look  at  Son,  as 
if  to  stamp  on  his  memory  every  feature. 

"  Good-bye  ! "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  please,"  cried  Son,  "  give  my  love  to 
the  Clown." 

The  man  hesitated,  then  he  stooped  down. 
He  did  not  have  to  stoop  very  much. 

"  Would  you,"  he  asked  diffidently,  "  would 
you  give  me  something  else  for  him?" 

Son  put  up  his  arms  and  closed  them  tight 
around  the  man's  neck. 

"  Give  him  that !  "  he  said. 

All  night  long  Son  dreamed  of  clowns  — 
clowns  in  hostile  countries,  among  unfriendly 
inhabitants,  —  clowns  in  dire  peril,  who  were 
rescued  by  little  boys,  and  whose  faces,  when 
they  bent  over  to  thank  their  protectors, 
became  the  faces  of  the  little  boys'  mothers. 


88 


TOM 


TOM 


OON  was  out  in  the  open,  looking  up  at  the 
low  rambling  house  that  pressed  the  turf 
as  he  was  pressing  it  with  his  foot.  On  the 
east  the  sea,  —  the  sea  on  the  west,  —  every 
where,  always,  that  riotous  sheet  of  dancing 
blue,  —  and  melting  into  it  a  green  so  sober 
that  it  checked  gently  the  soaring  of  his 
spirit  and  brought  it  home  again. 

That  there  were  rocks,  he  knew,  for  some 
times  in  less  radiant  mood  he  had  gone  down 
to  them,  seeking  the  treasures  that  little  boys 
love,  and  stopping  in  the  midst  of  his  indus 
try  to  watch  them  white  with  spray  or  pink 
in  the  sunset.  But  this  was  morning !  And 
they  didn't  belong  to  such  a  morning  as  this. 
The  trees  did,  —  they  belonged  always.  They 
were  big  and  protecting,  and  Son  had  only  to 
stand  under  their  great  branches  to  let  the 
heavy  sunlight  drop  down  on  him  in  flecks  of 
gold.  91 


"Son" 

If  there  had  been  any  one  observing  Son  at 
that  moment,  he  might  have  envied  the  care 
less  joys  of  childhood  digging  the  toes  of  its 
boots  into  such  a  fragrant  dewy  carpet,  —  he 
would  not  have  suspected  that  with  Son  mere 
joy  of  digging  paled  beside  his  delight  in  the 
living  green.  For  none  knew  that  this  little 
boy,  with  the  freckles  on  his  nose,  whose 
years  by  the  calendar  numbered  seven,  was 
really  of  no  age  at  all,  that  he  was  as  old  as 
any  heart  that  beat  that  could  rhyme  with  the 
sound  of  the  sea,  as  young  as  the  blue-bell 
that  had  sprung  up  yesterday. 

Father  and  Mother,  appearing  at  this 
moment  upon  the  terrace  for  their  rather  late 
breakfast,  saw  Son. 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  he  stands  around 
like  that?"  said  Father. 

"I  don't  know,"  Mother  answered,  pour 
ing  out  the  coffee;  "he  may  be  think 
ing." 

"  Thinking !  "  replied  Father  with  some 
scorn,  and  added  dogmatically,  "  Boys  don't 
think  at  that  age." 

92 


Tom 

"Very  likely  not,"  said  Mother  absently, 
looking  about  for  spoons. 

"  Hello  !  "  called  Father,  and  Son  came  at 
once  to  kiss  his  parents  good  morning. 

"  Have  you  been  down  to  the  stable  yet?  " 
began  Father  diplomatically. 

"  No,"  said  Son. 

Father  looked  disappointed. 

"  I'll  go  now,"  Son  said  cheerfully,  and 
ran  off. 

The  stable  was  in  charge  of  an  elderly  man 
who  had  been  got  cheap  on  account  of  a  cer 
tain  meagreness  in  his  references,  with  long 
gaps  which  were  not  very  well  accounted  for. 
Father  had  frowned  over  them  for  a  long 
time  in  a  state  of  indecision. 

"  But  he  has  such  a  nice  face !  "  Mother 
had  said.  "  And  the  livery  will  just  fit  him. 
And  he  will  be  much  more  contented  than  a 
younger  man,  so  far  from  the  village.  He  is 
perfectly  willing  to  mow  the  lawn,  too,  and 
black  boots,  and  look  after  the  furnace  if  we 
stay  late  in  the  Autumn.  Of  course  he's 
Irish,"  she  added  a  little  regretfully,  "  but  we 
93 


"Son" 

never  could  get  an  Englishman  who  would 
mow  the  lawn." 

So  Tom  was  engaged,  and  put  in  charge  of 
a  pair  of  horses  hired  from  the  village  and 
of  Baby's  pony,  Peter  Pan. 

This  pony  was  the  pride  of  the  whole  fam 
ily,  for  Mother,  having  seen  an  advertisement 
in  the  Sun  setting  forth  his  virtues  and  the 
sorrow  of  those  who  on  account  of  reverses 
had  been  obliged  to  part  with  him,  had  made 
her  way  to  a  stable  somewhere  near  the  river 
and  bought  him  at  sight,  together  with  a 
governess-cart  and  russet  harness. 

Father  had  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  on  see 
ing  the  new  purchase,  and  had  thought  in 
secret  that  fate  had  been  kind.  For  Peter 
was  young  and  sound,  and  looked  serviceable. 
The  harness  turned  out  to  be  machine  made, 
and  as  it  had  to  be  replaced  by  a  safer  one 
the  outfit  had  not  come  quite  so  cheap  as 
Mother  had  thought  But  that,  after  all,  was 
a  small  matter.  "It  might  have  been  so 
much  worse,"  reflected  Father.  "  Now,  if  the 
pony  had  had  a  spavin  ..." 
94 


Tom 

Mother  was  triumphant  this  Summer,  for 
Tom,  too,  had  turned  out  a  treasure.  He  was 
up  at  dawn,  and  worked  unceasingly  all  day. 
His  only  rest  was  during  the  hours  when,  in 
the  livery  which,  after  all,  had  needed  a  few 
alterations,  and  looking  very  neat  and  respec 
table,  he  was  out  with  Baby  and  her  nurse  in 
the  pony-cart.  The  hired  pair  Father  gen 
erally  drove  himself. 

When  after  a  few  weeks  it  appeared  that 
Baby  was  not  only  holding  the  reins  on  her 
expeditions  but  was  learning  to  handle  them 
with  the  inborn  instinct  of  the  true  sport, 
every  one,  from  the  fat  laundress  who  stood 
behind  the  lattice  watching,  hands  on  hips, 
to  Father  and  Mother  themselves,  was  in  a 
state  of  almost  hysterical  enthusiasm. 

As  for  Son,  he  was  swollen  with  vanity  and 
pride.  That  people  could  write  books  or 
make  up  poetry  did  not  seem  to  him  remark 
able.  But  any  one  who  could  handle  a  horse 
he  regarded  with  respectful  admiration.  And 
that  Baby  —  his  own  Baby,  not  yet  four  years 
old  —  was  doing  it  every  afternoon  was 
95 


"Son" 

wonderful  beyond  words.  So,  when  Father 
was  laughing  one  day  over  the  receipt  of  a 
notice  inviting  him  to  make  entries  in  the 
coming  August  horse-show,  Son  had  cried 
out,  "  Let  Baby  drive  Peter !  " 

Father  and  Mother  had  exchanged  looks  of 
silent  astonishment,  and  had  then  responded 
with  one  voice,  "Why  not?" 

And  Son,  to  whom  it  did  not  seem  to  occur 
that  he  had  work  enough  already,  had  en 
tered  heart  and  soul  into  the  idea.  Son  knew, 
as  he  trotted  toward  the  stable  on  this  partic 
ular  morning,  just  what  Tom  would  be  doing. 
He  would  be  rubbing,  rubbing,  rubbing,  and 
as  he  rubbed  he  would  make  a  peculiar  half- 
whistling,  half-sighing  sound.  Son  had 
thought  this  was  meant  to  soothe  the  horses, 
until  one  day  he  heard  Tom  doing  it  as  he 
bent  over  the  lawn  mower. 

"  Good  morning,  Tom  !  "  said  Son. 

"  Good  morning,  me  lad,"  said  Tom. 

"Isn't  it  a  beautiful  day?"     Son  went  on. 

"  Sure,  it's  a  foine  day  for  horses,"  responded 
Tom, "  and  the  flies  isn't  botherin'  thim  at  all." 
96 


Tom 

Son  sighed.  There  was  only  one  subject 
upon  which  one  could  converse  with  Tom. 
So  they  went  over  for  the  thousandth  time 
their  plans  for  the  coming  show. 

It  was  at  lunch  that  very  day  that  the 
crash  of  Son's  hopes  came.  They  were,  of 
course,  talking  of  Baby. 

"  She  hasn't  a  chance  of  any  kind  of  a 
ribbon,"  Father  said  easily. 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?"  re 
torted  Mother,  piqued  at  his  assumption  of 
her  ignorance.  Then  she  continued  more 
amiably,  "  He's  a  pretty  pony,  though." 

"  Yes,"  Father  said  judicially,  "  but  no 
action.  Have  you  seen  the  Reynolds'  pony, 
• —  the  black  one  ?  He  can  step  !  " 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  went  on  Mother.  "We're 
only  going  into  it  for  fun.  Baby  will  look 
too  sweet !  And  she  won't  know  whether  she 
gets  a  ribbon  or  not." 

Thus  carelessly  did  Mother  thrust  her  little 
daughter  into  the  class  of  incompetents. 

Not  know  the  difference  !  Son  grew  hot. 
97 


"Son" 

But  he  said  no  word,  and  occupied  himself 
with  his  potato. 

The  instant  the  meal  was  finished,  Son 
went  down  to  the  stable.  Tom  was  working 
on  harness  this  time.  Not  the  harness  that 
had  been  rented  with  the  village  horses,  but 
Peter's  little  russet  one,  which  he  handled 
delicately,  pausing  from  time  to  time  with 
his  head  on  one  side  to  determine  whether 
the  mountings  shone  enough. 

Son  watched  him  for  some  moments 
quietly.  He  hated  to  tell  what  he  had  heard, 
longing  at  the  same  time  for  sympathy.  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  vicissitudes  of  Tom's 
life,  —  the  long  years  of  drifting  and  knock 
ing  about,  so  he  could  not  realize  the  blessed 
ness  of  the  peace  that  had  come  to  the  gray- 
haired  man  through  being  anchored  fast  at 
last 

Poor  Tom  would  not  express  himself  in 
words,  but  with  the  work  of  his  hands  he 
could  show  his  adoration  of  Baby,  and  did. 
Nothing  was  too  good  for  her.  And  in  the 
eyes  of  his  love  everything  pertaining  to  her 
98 


Tom 

expanded  and  grew.  Thus  he  slaved  for 
Father  and  Mother,  merely  because  she  owned 
them,  and  he  had  come  to  regard  Peter,  who 
served  her,  as  the  one  pony  in  the  world. 
Son's  intuition  told  him  enough  of  all  this  to 
make  this  moment  very  difficult.  And  it  is 
not  easy  to  put  things  just  right  when  you 
are  only  seven. 

"  Tom,"  he  said  at  last  tentatively,  "  do 
you  think  Peter  will  get  a  ribbon  ?  " 

"  Sure,  I  do,"  replied  Tom  with  conviction. 
"  It's  the  blue  he'll  get." 

"  Mother  and  Father  don't  think  he's  got 
action  enough,"  burst  out  Son.  There,  —  it 
was  said,  —  and  he  had  meant  to  do  it  so 
much  more  gradually. 

"  Oh ! "  said  Tom.  He  had  not  thought  of 
that.  But  now  that  it  had  been  spoken  of, 
his  ideal  pony  had  in  a  twinkling  dissolved  in 
thin  air,  and  left  in  his  stead  a  naked,  change 
ling  Peter. 

Tom  emerged  from  his  nightmare  to  see 
Son's  anxious  eyes  on  his  face.     Son  had  a 
way  of  waiting  for  an  answer. 
99 


"Son" 

"Action,  is  it?"  blustered  Tom  feebly. 
"  Well,  what  if  he  ain't?" 

Then  Son  knew  that  Father  and  Mother  had 
spoken  truth.  He  went  out  thinking  deeply. 

Tom  resumed  his  work,  and  his  face  looked 
quite  old  and  ashen.  But  it  seemed  that  he 
too  was  thinking,  for  toward  night  a  mysteri 
ous  smile  began  to  play  around  his  eyes  and 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

That  evening  at  supper,  Son  said : 

"  Baby,  if  you  shouldn't  get  a  blue  ribbon, 
what  color  would  you  like  ?  " 

"  Green,"  answered  Baby  promptly. 

And  her  nurse  laughed,  —  for  she  was  Irish, 
as  well  as  Tom. 

The  afternoon  had  come.  Father  and 
Mother  were  going  to  the  horse-show  on  a 
brake.  Son  was  to  follow  in  that  anomalous 
conveyance  known  as  a  cutunder,  that  Baby 
might  be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible  on  the  way 
over  with  Peter. 

But  when  the  brake,  with  much  crunching 
of  gravel,  fussing  about  of  grooms,  and  head 
100 


Tom 

tossings  of  horses,  had  been  brought  to  a 
standstill  before  the  door,  Mother's  resplen 
dent  friend  noticed  Son  standing  gravely  there 
to  see  the  party  off,  and  with  a  sudden  im 
pulse  to  make  herself  very  agreeable,  cried 
out: 

"  Why  can't  he  come  too?" 

"  Yes !  Yes  !  "  shouted  all  the  other  beauti 
ful  ladies  and  fine  gentlemen,  in  chorus. 

"  Let  him  sit  in  front  with  you,  Dick,"  said 
Mother's  friend  to  her  husband,  trying  to 
make  her  tone  ungrudging ;  "  he  won't  take 
up  much  room.  I  hope  he  won't  be  noisy," 
she  added  under  her  breath. 

Son  was  swung  up  by  the  attentive  grooms, 
to  whom  the  gentleman  gave  a.  great  many 
orders  in  a  very  loud  voice,  and  sat  as  still  as 
a  mouse  between  the  gentleman  and  the  most 
beautiful  young  lady  he  had  ever  seen.  Her 
cheeks  were  as  red  as  roses,  and  she  was 
clothed  all  in  violet  of  the  most  delicate 
shades.  When  she  moved  she  exhaled  a 
pungent  odor,  also  of  violets.  She  put  her 
arm  about  Son,  giving  him  a  little  squeeze, 
101 


"Son" 

and  paid  no  further  attention  to  him.  The 
gentleman  handled  the  reins  with  an  easy 
skill  that  was  marvellous  to  Son. 

"Well,  old  sport,"  he  asked  familiarly, 
looking  down,  "  and  how  goes  the  world  with 
you  ?  " 

Son  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  this 
strange  form  of  address.  But  it  came  to  him 
quickly  that  the  gentleman  was  probably  not 
used  to  little  boys,  so  he  said  cordially: 

"  Very  well,  thank  you." 

And  the  gentleman  looked  at  him  again 
with  a  kindly  glimmer  in  his  little  gray  eyes, 
after  which  he  asked  Son  quite  solicitously 
whether  he  had  room  enough. 

How  dusty  the  road  was !  Son  was  glad 
that  the  great  white  swirls  did  not  reach  to 
their  high  perch,  for  it  would  have  been  such 
a  pity  to  spoil  the  beautiful  dress  of  the  violet 
young  lady.  Their  progress  was  necessarily 
slow,  but  the  gentleman  man  manoeuvred  his 
four  in  and  out  among  crawling  vehicles  of 
every  description  with  a  sureness  born  of  long 
practice  up  and  down  New  York's  great 
1 02 


Tom 

thoroughfare.  For  he  took  his  driving  seri 
ously,  and  who  shall  say  he  was  not  the 
better  for  it?  Had  fate  denied  him  the 
wherewithal  to  follow  out  his  destiny,  and 
tried  to  make  of  him  a  doctor  or  a  lawyer, 
how  pitiable  would  have  been  the  result! 
Each  after  his  kind.  And  Son  followed  with 
unbounded  admiration  every  twist  and  turn 
of  his  wrist,  wondering  most  of  all  at  sight  of 
the  long,  thin  lash  that,  fascinating  as  a  live 
reptile,  uncoiled  itself,  pricking  with  unerring 
aim  first  one  leader  and  then  the  other,  to  be 
wound  up  again  instantly  without  the  minutest 
tangle.  He  doubted  whether  even  Baby 
would  be  able  to  do  it  like  that,  when  she 
should  have  a  four  of  her  own. 

Baby !  She  would  be  coming  soon.  Son 
felt  in  his  pocket,  to  make  sure  that  some 
thing  was  there.  Yes,  there  it  was,  all  safe. 

A  sudden  jar  turned  his  thoughts.  Some 
of  the  ladies  screamed.  Not  Mother,  —  she 
never  screamed.  Almost  obliterated  by  dust, 
a  well-loaded  cutunder  had  stopped  short  in 
the  middle  of  the  last  hill  before  you  came 
103 


"Son" 

to  the  park,  directly  in  front  of  the  brake. 
The  leaders,  pulled  sharply  to  the  left,  cleared 
it  by  a  hair's  breadth.  The  brake  rocked, 
and  its  owner  uttered  forcible  expletives  in  no 
gentle  tone.  The  driver  of  the  cutunder 
turned  toward  the  party  his  round,  humorous 
face. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Mr.  Jennings  !  "  he  pleaded. 
"There  ain't  no  power  on  earth  will  make 
him  go  when  he  takes  a  notion  not  to.  So 
long ! " 

And  Son  turned  to  see  him,  slumped  down 
in  his  seat,  the  reins  over  the  horse's  back, 
wagon  and  occupants  motionless  and  very 
much  in  the  way  of  everybody. 

Sharply  trotting,  —  for  the  congestion  was 
less  for  the  moment,  —  the  leaders  reached 
the  crest  of  the  hill  and  lessened  their  pace 
for  the  downward  slope.  For,  as  everybody 
knew,  Mr.  Jennings  explained  good-naturedly 
to  Son,  the  chances  were  a  thousand  to  one 
you  would  snap  your  pole  if  you  neglected 
to  take  this  precaution.  "  Break  it  short  off, 
by  thunder !  "  he  said  impressively. 
104 


Tom 

But  Son  did  not  hear.  For  down  in  the 
valley  he  could  see  a  green  level  field,  cool 
as  an  emerald  after  the  dusty  road.  The  sky 
was  brilliant,  and  against  it  stood  out  sharp 
the  outlines  of  the  watching  mountains. 
Great  masses  of  cloud  moved  slowly  across 
the  blue,  casting  shadows  over  their  slopes. 
Son  longed  for  time  to  notice  their  mysterious 
changes  of  form,  their  luminous  colors  and 
watery  depths. 

But  already  the  field  was  growing  bigger, 
—  men  and  horses  had  ceased  to  look  like 
puppets,  the  freshly  whitewashed  fence  glit 
tered  in  the  sun,  and  it  was  as  hot  as  ever. 

Inside  the  gate  the  confusion  was  worse 
than  on  the  road.  One  driver  did  not  know 
where  to  go,  and  the  two  old  ladies  in  black 
silk  with  tiny  sunshades,  who  were  his  fares, 
turned  deaf  ears  to  all  offers  of  aid,  thinking 
to  discern  behind  each  one  some  hostile 
arritre  pensee.  A  policeman — if  such  are 
made  by  uniform  and  buttons  —  was  standing 
by,  letting  people  work  themselves  out  of 
their  difficulties  as  best  they  might.  His 
105 


"Son" 

helmet  was  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  he 
was  chewing  a  straw,  cracking  jokes  the 
while  with  his  acquaintances.  Son  found 
time  to  observe  him  with  open-eyed  disap 
proval.  He  longed  to  show  him  a  real  police 
man, —  one  who  was  his  intimate  friend, — 
named  Jim.  One  look  at  Jim  would  crush 
the  spirit  of  this  undignified  rustic ;  of  that 
Son  was  certain. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Jennings,  avoiding  all  ob 
stacles,  had  landed  his  brake  in  the  proper 
parking-space,  and  the  agile  grooms  were 
busying  themselves  with  the  horses.  Their 
master  had  descended  somewhat  heavily, 
followed  by  Son,  and  was  superintend 
ing  the  unharnessing  and  blanketing,  en 
joying  once  more  his  prerogative  of  giving 
orders. 

Amid  the  laughter  of  the  ladies  the  brake 
was  then  drawn  up  close  to  the  rail,  and  the 
violet  one  extended  jauntily  two  little  prettily 
slippered  feet.  One  of  the  gentlemen,  a 
young  one,  climbed  over  from  the  middle 
seat  and  took  the  now  vacant  place  beside 
106 


Tom 

her,  carrying  on  with  her  a  whispered  con 
versation  which  seemed  to  amuse  them  both 
very  much. 

The  village  band  struck  up  a  lively  tune, 
which  to  Son's  uncritical  ear  was  martial 
music,  and  added  greatly  to  his  excitement. 
He  slipped  away  from  his  big  companion, 
and  wandered  about  among  the  tents  which 
constituted  that  part  of  the  show  called  by 
courtesy  "the  fair."  The  pink  lemonade 
looked  inviting,  but  he  lacked  the  necessary 
nickel,  and  Mother  was  too  busy  talking  to 
be  disturbed.  Son  went  over  to  a  booth 
where  people  were  aiming  with  baseballs  at 
half  a  dozen  grotesque  masques.  He  watched 
for  several  minutes  the  jovial  and  generally 
unsuccessful  attempts  of  many  competitors, 
wishing  that  Mr.  Jennings  would  try  and  put 
these  bunglers  to  shame.  In  one  he  recog 
nized  a  coachman  whom  he  had  often  seen 
sitting  up  very  straight  on  his  box,  looking 
neither  to  right  nor  left.  He  threw  the  worst 
of  all,  with  his  white  tie  under  one  ear.  His 
efforts  caused  boisterous  mirth,  in  which  he 
107 


himself  joined  loudly,  and  Son  nearly  died 
laughing  too. 

Looking  up,  he  saw  the  cutunder  of  their 
adventure  just  entering  the  grounds,  the  horse 
walking  along  with  a  certain  conscious  dignity. 
"  I  wonder  what  made  him  change  his  mind !  " 
thought  Son.  "  Perhaps  he  did  not  want  the 
people  to  be  disappointed."  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  class  being  called  through  the  mega 
phone,  and  running  in  and  out  among  the 
blanketed  horses,  clambered  up  on  the  fence 
in  front  of  his  own  parking-space.  The  top 
rail  was  well  covered  with  children,  vil 
lagers  and  summer  visitors  rubbing  shoul 
ders,  while  their  elders  stood  good-temperedly 
behind. 

It  looked  hot  inside  the  wooden  pavilion 
known  as  the  judges'  stand.  The  judges  were 
all  there,  —  two  short  ones  on  chairs,  and  the 
third,  who  was  tall  and  much  cut  in  at  the 
waist,  posed  gracefully  against  the  rail.  At 
the  foot  of  the  stand  were  grouped  figures 
long  familiar  to  Son, —  the  local  veterinary, 
a  handsome  fellow  in  a  black  and  white 
1 08 


Tom 

checked  suit;  an  enormously  fat  man  in  a 
white  waistcoat,  whom  Son  sincerely  pitied 
on  this  warm  day,  —  owner  of  a  small  livery 
stable  that  was  always  disintegrating  and 
somehow  being  nursed  along  again  for  the 
next  season.  There,  too,  were  the  success 
ful  liverymen,  brothers,  standing  side  by  side, 
with  thin,  dissipated  faces  as  inscrutable  as 
any  to  be  met  on  the  tenderloin,  and,  moving 
up  and  down  nervously,  a  little  neat  gentleman 
who  had  no  entries  and  nothing  to  do  with 
the  show,  but  merely  liked  to  be  everywhere 
and  talk  with  every  one. 

All  these  people  interested  Son  more  than 
the  class  that  was  about  to  be  judged,  which 
consisted  of  heavy  pairs  in  harness.  At  last 
it  was  time  to  award  the  ribbons.  He  watched 
them  all,  —  blue,  red,  yellow,  and,  last,  white, 
—  watched  until  the  colors  swam  before  his 
eyes  and  his  heart  beat  like  a  trip-hammer. 
For  Baby's  was  the  next  class. 

One  of  those  big,  puffy  clouds  drifted 
slowly  across  the  sun,  and  a  fresh  breeze 
lifted  for  a  moment  the  awning  over  the 
109 


"Son" 

grand  stand  as  if  it  had  been  a  sail.  Every 
one  felt  the  relief  of  it,  and  people  moved 
about  in  the  crowded  boxes,  chatting,  laugh 
ing,  and  ready  to  be  pleased.  Even  the 
horses  noticed  it,  and  from  the  paddock  to 
the  right  of  the  wooden  structure  that  penned 
in  the  fashionable  throng,  came  many  a  joy 
ful  snort  and  whinny.  Son's  little  cramped 
hands  dug  into  the  wooden  rail.  For  the 
ponies  were  coming  in. 

"  How  sweet !  "  he  heard  the  violet  girl  say 
on  the  brake.  "  Look  at  his  little  ears  !  " 

And  from  that  moment  he  no  longer  loved 
her.  For  it  was  the  Reynolds'  pony  that  she 
meant 

It  was  a  big  class,  —  five,  six,  seven, — 
Baby  would  make  eight 

Where  was  Baby? 

The  Reynolds'  pony  was  trotting  up  and 
down,  always  nearest  the  rail.  Son  could 
have  touched  him,  so  close  was  he.  And  as 
he  passed  he  lifted  his  little  feet  proudly.  A 
groom  drove  him,  and  with  him  in  the  cart 
was  a  boy  of  about  Son's  age.  Then  there 

IIO 


Tom 

was  a  piebald,  driven  by  a  girl  whom  Son 
knew, —  a  big  girl,  he  thought  scornfully, — 
as  much  as  eight  years  old  !  One  pony  was 
a  Shetland,  —  nothing  but  a  toy.  A  groom 
was  driving  him,  too,  and  his  owners  were 
two  small  boys  in  sailor  suits,  twins,  with 
vacuous  faces  and  innocent  eyes  exactly  alike. 
That  one  there  was  a  pretty  one !  A  bay. 
Almost  as  showy  as  the  Reynolds'  pony  and 
far  harder  to  handle.  A  boy  in  a  norfolk 
jacket  was  managing  him  alone,  giving  a  very 
nice  exhibition  of  skill.  A  much  older  girl 
was  driving  in  a  surrey  a  pampered  gray 
pony  that  looked  over-fed.  Son  didn't  notice 
the  rest,  for  his  impatience  was  burning 
him  up. 

Where  was  Baby? 

He  looked  across  the  track,  and  saw  Father 
over  by  the  judges'  stand,  eyes  fastened  on 
the  gate  by  which  Baby  must  come  in,  and 
with  a  very  grave  face.  Son's  heart  almost 
stopped  beating,  for  the  ponies  were  lining 
up  to  be  judged.  He  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
and  without  stopping  to  look  for  Mother, 
ill 


"Son" 

rushed  wildly  back  of  the  green  painted 
grand  stand,  toward  the  paddock. 

There  they  were !  There  was  Baby  —  and 
Peter — and  everybody!  But  what  was  the 
matter?  And  why  was  Tom  bending  over 
and  looking  at  Peter's  legs,  instead  of  sitting 
in  the  cart?  "Baby!"  he  sobbed,  long  be 
fore  there  was  any  possibility  of  being  heard, 
—  "  Oh,  Baby !  Hurry  up  !  "  At  last  Tom 
was  in,  and  they  were  ready.  But  the  gate 
was  closed.  Son  rushed  up  to  it,  sobbing 
still,  and  tried  to  tear  at  it  with  his  hands. 
He  was  so  blinded  by  tears  that  he  did  not 
see  the  man  standing  beside  it,  until  the  lat 
ter  called  out  with  a  smile,  "  All  right,  little 
boy !  Don't  worry !  Plenty  of  time  !  "  and 
opened  the  gate. 

Son  saw  that  Tom  had  the  reins.  "  Prob 
ably  he  thinks  she's  too  little  to  drive  him 
through,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  But  she  could 
do  it !  Yes,  she  could  !  " 

He  ran  behind  the  cart;  crossed  the  track, 
reached  the  judges'  stand,  and  slipped  his 
hand  into  Father's. 

112 


Tom 

What  a  relief!  Tom  had  given  Baby  the 
reins.  The  whole  tension  of  Son's  body 
relaxed. 

"Let  her  drive  up  and  down  once  or 
twice,"  said  the  reddest-faced  judge  to  Tom. 

So  Baby,  eyes  front,  cheeks  glowing,  a  soft 
curl  or  two  lifted  by  the  breeze,  started  up 
the  track  amid  the  cheers  of  the  crowd. 

Baby  never  noticed  them,  but  Son  experi 
enced  the  intoxication  of  popular  acclaim. 
He  wanted  to  shout  back  in  a  mighty  voice, 
"  She's  my  sister  !  "  Strung  up  to  the  high 
est  pitch,  he  was  the  first  to  feel  the  change 
in  their  humor.  What  was  it? 

No  cheering  now  .  .  .  and  yet  not  silence 
.  .  .  Men  were  protesting,  women  crying 
out  .  .  .  Peter,  who  had  started  out  so  well, 
had  begun  to  break.  .  .  . 

Tom  had  taken  the  reins,  turned  the  pony, 
and  succeeded  in  bringing  him  into  line, 
where  he  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then 
began  to  paw  frantically,  first  with  one  deli 
cate  little  hoof,  then  with  another.  The  red 
face  of  the  judge  had  grown  purple. 


"Son" 

"  Have  you  lost  your  senses?"  he  snarled 
at  Tom.  "Take  that  child  out !  " 

But  Father  with  one  spring  had  reached 
the  cart  before  Tom  could  obey,  had  grabbed 
Baby,  and  was  holding  her  on  his  arm.  Loud 
hisses  had  begun  to  be  audible,  —  derisive 
fingers  pointed  at  Tom.  Amid  the  wrathful 
murmurs,  cries  of  "  Gate !  gate !  Give  him 
the  gate  !"  could  be  heard  on  all  sides.  For 
a  moment  no  one  thought  of  Baby,  who  had 
squirmed  to  be  put  down,  and  was  now  stand 
ing  all  alone  in  her  white  dress,  her  dimpled 
knees  showing,  her  little  whip  grasped  firmly 
in  her  gloved  right  hand.  The  judges  were 
talking  in  low  tones,  and  Son  heard  such 
words  as  "shameful,"  "risk,"  "danger,"  and 
"  dope." 

Tom,  looking  up,  saw  every  hand  pointing 
at  the  gate. 

He  bent  his  head  and  drove  silently  through, 
and  the  man  who  had  smiled  at  Son  followed 
him  with  a  look  of  contempt. 

Son,  crushed  for  a  moment,  realized  that 
there  was  something  to  be  saved  from  the 
114 


Tom 

wreck  of  his  world.  He  fumbled  in  his 
pocket,  ran  over  to  Baby,  and  cried  in  a  brave 
voice  that  trembled  very  much : 

"  Here,  Darling !  Here  's  your  ribbon ! " 
Then  lifting  to  the  irate  judge  his  white, 
dejected  face,  "Have  you  got  a  pin?"  he 
said.  The  judge  produced  one,  and  Son, 
with  hands  that  were  almost  numb,  decorated 
the  dainty  frock  with  an  enormous  green  ro 
sette.  His  heart  rose  in  thankfulness  to  the 
crowd  who  were  so  kind  to  Baby,  —  for  once 
more  every  body  clapped.  If  any  one  had 
whispered  in  his  ear  at  that  moment  that  the 
applause  was  meant  for  him,  he  would  not  in 
the  least  have  grasped  the  significance  of  the 
words. 

As  for  Baby  herself,  her  face  was  wreathed 
in  smiles,  and  the  owner  of  the  Reynolds' 
pony,  who  won  the  blue,  was  not  half  so 
proud  as  she.  Whenever  a  fresh  wave  of 
disappointment  threatened  to  overcome  Son, 
he  stole  a  look  at  her  happy  face,  and  little 
warm  feelings  of  comfort  began  to  melt  the 
ice  at  his  heart. 


"Son" 

When  the  track  had  been  cleared,  Father 
crossed  it,  holding  a  child  by  each  hand,  and 
made  his  way  over  to  the  brake.  Son,  much 
to  his  confusion,  was  surrounded  by  ladies, 
who  had  all  descended  and  were  prepared  to 
make  much  of  him,  —  even  the  violet  one. 

"  What  a  darling !  "  they  were  saying. 
"  Such  a  sweet  little  brother  !  Couldn't  bear 
to  have  her  disappointed  !  How  did  he  ever 
think  of  it !  Most  unfortunate  !  " 

All  these  comments  descended  on  Son,  for 
Baby  would  have  none  of  them.  Suddenly 
Son  rushed  over  to  Mother,  buried  his  face 
in  her  dress  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Poor  old  fellow !  "  he  heard  Father  say, 
"  he's  all  upset  No,  thanks,  old  man,  we'll 
get  a  cutunder  right  here.  I've  got  to  get 
these  children  home." 

"All  right,"  Mr.  Jennings  replied,  "but 
I'd  like  to  have  'em  on  the  brake.  Both  of 
'em.  Great  kids." 

Mother  was  busy  whispering  to  Son.  Her 
pretty  gown  was  all  crumpled  on  the  trodden 
grass,  but  she  did  not  know  it.  Both  forgot 
116 


Tom 

for  a  moment  that  there  were  any  other 
people  in  the  world. 

Son  was  put  into  the  front  seat  of  the  cut- 
under,  —  Mother,  Baby,  and  the  nurse  behind. 
Where  was  Father  going  to  sit? 

"  I've  got  to  look  after  the  pony,"  the 
latter  said,  "  before  that  fool  gets  at  him. 
I'll  drive  him  home  as  soon  as  he's  fit  I 
won't  be  long." 

He  turned  away,  but  Son  called  after  him. 

"Father!"  he  said,  "isn't  Tom  going  to 
drive  Peter  home  ?  " 

Father  came  back.  Son  had  never  seen 
his  face  look  as  it  did  now. 

"  I  think  you're  old  enough  to  understand," 
he  said.  "  That  man,  out  of  idiocy  and  van 
ity  or  heaven  knows  what,  took  it  upon  him 
self  to  endanger  your  little  sister's  life.  He 
rubbed  turpentine  into  the  pony's  legs.  He 
tried  to  cheat  the  Association  by  a  low  trick. 
I'm  going  to  borrow  the  money  from  Jen 
nings  to  pay  him  off  this  minute.  Don't  ever 
speak  to  me  of  him  again." 

During  the  progress  of  this  speech,  in 
117 


"Son" 

which  the  law  was  being  laid  down  to  him, 
Son's  mind  was  drawing  its  own  conclusions 
on  the  evidence. 

"It  was  to  make  him  step,"  was  all  he 
said,  in  a  little  voice  that  died  half-way  to 
Father's  retreating  form. 

It  would  have  been  a  silent  party  that 
drove  slowly  home  had  not  Baby  talked  and 
laughed  continuously,  playing  with  her  ribbon. 

Poor  Son !  There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to 
his  responsibilities.  Before  the  reality  of  this 
last  disaster,  the  rest  was  mere  child's  play. 
For  he  saw  continually  before  his  eyes  Tom's 
bent  head  at  the  moment  in  which  with  such 
cruel  curtness  he  had  been  ordered  off  the 
track.  It  was  Father  who  did  not  understand. 
Somehow  people  never  understood  things. 
Son  knew,  as  he  knew  that  he  was  alive,  why 
Tom  had  done  this  thing.  It  was  all  out  of 
love — great,  big,  warm  love  —  that  he  had 
done  it.  Tom  would  have  gone  through  fire 
or  water  for  Baby  —  he  would  at  any  moment 
have  sacrificed  his  life  for  her.  And  if,  to 
secure  her  a  pleasure,  it  became  necessary  to 
118 


Tom 

commit  crime  or  pull  off  a  sharp  trick,  it  was 
all  one  to  him.  That  he  had  never  thought 
of  danger  went  without  saying.  How  easy 
it  was  to  understand !  But,  oh,  how  impos 
sible  to  explain ! 

And  in  the  end  he  was  saved  from  attempt 
ing  this  Herculean  task.  For  what  Father 
and  Mother  lacked  in  appreciation  they  made 
up  in  affection,  and  they  let  Son  go  after 
Tom  next  day,  just  because  they  saw  how 
tremendously  he  cared. 

Son,  on  his  little  bicycle,  made  for  the 
blacksmith's  shop.  His  instinct  had  not 
erred  in  telling  him  where  to  look. 

Tom  had  been  standing  motionless  in  the 
doorway  for  hours,  but  when  he  saw  Son  he 
disappeared  inside. 

Son  leaned  his  bicycle  against  the  wall  and 
went  in,  past  the  clanging  anvils,  to  the  spot 
where  Tom  was  hiding  in  the  shadows.  Son 
took  his  hand  and  led  him  out  into  the  sun 
shine,  chatting  all  the  time. 

"  The  harness  hasn't  been  cleaned,  and  the 
119 


"Son" 

cart  is  all  dusty,"  he  said ;  but  there  was  no 
response. 

"  Father  and  Mother  said  I  could  come 
and  get  you,"  he  continued.  But  Tom  did 
not  brighten. 

"Baby  is  waiting  to  give  Peter  his  sugar," 
said  Son. 

And  Tom  ran  back  into  the  shop  to  get 
his  hat 


120 


NILS 


NILS 


"  T  TIS  reference  \sfetfect"  said  Mother. 

JL  JL  Father  said  nothing.  He  had  heard 
that  sanguine  tone  before.  But  Mother  looked 
so  pretty,  with  her  flushed  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes,  that  he  decided  then  and  there  to  keep 
silence  not  only  as  to  the  possibility  of  fresh 
disappointment,  but  as  to  the  unwisdom  of 
the  added  expense. 

"  I  can  write  another  story,"  he  thought, 
"  a  pot-boiler."  And  he  began  to  revolve 
in  his  mind  plots  with  a  feminine  detective 
interest,  putting  off  until  some  future  time 
the  planning  of  an  article  on  certain  reforms 
in  the  Criminal  Law. 

So  the  fourth  butler  was  engaged.  The 
three  that  preceded  him  had  served  but  a 
short  week  apiece.  The  last  had  had  a  coun 
tenance  void  of  expression,  and  a  tread  that 
shook  the  floor  of  the  poor  little  house. 
123 


"Son" 

Twenty  feet  front  was  a  space  far  too  small 
for  such  impressiveness. 

"  W-h-y,"  Son  had  said,  as  he  entered  the 
dining-room  on  the  second  morning  of  the 
reign  of  this  personage,  turning  toward  him 
with  a  smile  of  pleased  recognition,  "  there's 
the  goat ! " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Father. 
"What  goat?" 

"The  buster-goat." 

This  was  too  much.  The  man  retired  into 
the  pantry,  for  he  was  in  danger  of  losing  his 
most  precious  asset,  his  gravity.  If  he  had 
shown  for  a  moment  a  touch  of  humanity, 
and  had  "m-a-a-d"  at  Son  and  Baby  from 
behind  the  door  as  they  came  in,  that  was 
neither  here  nor  there.  He  came  back  im 
passive  as  ever.  And  at  the  end  of  seven 
days  he  moved  on  to  a  place  where  there 
were  no  children,  and  where  in  his  joyless 
formality  he  vied  with  his  employers  them 
selves. 

"His  name  is  Lundstrom,"  said  Mother, 
"Nils  Lundstrom.  But  Lundstrom  is  too  hard 
124 


Nils 

to  say.     I  think   we  shall  have  to  call  him 
Nils." 

When  Nils  had  been  in  the  house  three 
days,  Father  began  to  admit  to  himself  that 
he  was  not  like  the  others. 

"  She's  stumbled  on  it  again,"  he  thought, 
— "  run  right  onto  it  in  the  dark."  For  he 
was  a  firm  believer  in  Mother's  luck.  He 
found  it  surprisingly  easy  to  get  used  to 
being  waited  on,  while  he  grumbled  a  little 
on  the  side. 

Mother  was  quite  accustomed  to  this  and 
did  not  mind  it.  She  had  sat  opposite  him 
at  dinner  for  a  number  of  years  now,  hearing 
him  talk  of  his  boyhood's  porridge  and  of 
the  simple  fare  he  had  had  in  his  college 
days. 

"  I'd  be  perfectly  satisfied  to-night  [with  a 
couple  of  poached  eggs,"  he  often  said. 

Yet  it  was  he  who  gave  the  final  word  as  to 
the  capabilities  of  the  cooks,  of  whom  there 
had  been  in  these  years  quite  a  procession, 
each  giving  place  silently  to  a  successor  who 
a  little  excelled  her  in  daintiness  and  skill. 
125 


"Son" 

"  By  Jove !  I've  left  my  handkerchief," 
Father  would  exclaim  as  Nils  was  opening 
the  front  door.  And  it  was  hardly  a  second 
that  he  and  Mother  would  have  to  wait  — 
just  time  enough  for  a  glance  at  himself  in 
the  mirror,  an  instant's  adjusting  of  the  soft 
fur  at  her  neck  —  before  Nils  had  sprung  up 
the  three  flights  of  stairs  and  was  down  again 
with  the  required  article  in  his  hand. 

He  would  emerge  from  nowhere  to  an 
nounce  that  the  motor  was  at  the  door,  or 
appear  noiselessly  in  Mother's  sitting-room 
to  ask  whether  she  cared  to  speak  to  who 
ever  might  be  at  the  telephone.  No  more 
ringing  of  the  extension  bell  at  the  behest  of 
any  chance  milliner  seeking  renewed  custom 
or  stranger  wishing  to  investigate  a  ser 
vant's  reference,  as  in  the  days  of  ease-loving 
parlor-maids. 

And  during  a  hiatus  of  furnace  men  he 
stoked  the  furnace  himself,  though  it  was  in 
the  height  of  the  season  and  he  was  very 
busy  getting  ready  for  a  number  of  little 
dinners. 

126 


Nils 

"The  silver  was  in  such  a  state,"  thought 
Mother,  looking  with  satisfaction  at  two 
Georgian  boxes,  —  wedding  presents,  which 
had  just  been  rubbed  into  the  beauty  they 
had  possessed  on  that  day,  now  so  long  ago, 
when  she  had  first  taken  them  out  of  their 
wrappings.  And  because  the  machinery  of 
the  house  went  on,  she  did  not  hurry  herself 
in  filling  in  the  interim  between  out-going 
Michael  and  in-coming  Patrick. 

"  It's  much  more  fun  to  have  only  eight 
for  dinner,  and  it  is  much  less  work,  as  well 
as  being  cheaper,"  Mother  would  say  to 
Father,  as  she  gave  a  last  glance  at  the  well- 
appointed  table,  with  its  few  flowers  exquis 
itely  arranged.  She  never  had  to  touch  the 
flowers  now,  —  Nils  did  it  all,  —  and  the  din 
ners  of  eight  went  so  well,  and  were  so  much 
appreciated,  that  they  began  to  take  place 
very  often. 

Women  liked  to  sit  in  the  impanelled 
drawing-room,  with  its  graceful  chairs  of 
another  age,  from  which  worn  gilt  and  one 
time  white  enamel  were  crumbling-,  merging 
127 


"Son" 

and  blending  into  an  exquisite  bit  of  color. 
For  Mother  had  the  feel  of  these  things,  and 
knew  where  to  pick  them  up. 

And  afterwards  they  liked  to  join  the  men 
in  the  library,  which,  if  less  dainty,  had  an 
air  of  very  solid  comfort.  This  was  Father's 
sanctum,  and  adhering  sternly  to  his  ideals 
in  this  case,  he  would  not  hear  of  banishing 
a  chair  whose  cushions  were  getting  thin  or 
a  sofa  whose  leather  was  worn.  So  all  sat  on 
and  on,  listening  to  his  amusing  stories  if  he 
was  in  the  vein,  or  talking  comfortably  in 
groups,  until  late  in  the  night. 

Then,  when  they  were  all  gone,  Nils  would 
put  out  the  lights. 

One  day  at  lunch,  Son,  eating  his  chop, 
glanced  up  to  see  two  dark  eyes  fixed  on  his 
face.  Utterly  free  from  self-consciousness 
though  he  was,  there  was  something  about 
them  that  made  him  vaguely  uncomfortable. 

After  that  he  often  encountered  this  puzzling 
look,  and  in  bed  at  night  it  would  come  back 
to  him.  It  made  him  long  unspeakably  for 
128 


Nils 

something  —  he  knew  not  what.  He  would 
go  to  sleep,  unsatisfied,  and  dream  of  great, 
lonely  lakes,  going  on  and  on  into  infinite 
distance.  Over  these  lakes  hovered  majestic 
mountains,  and  the  light  that  glimmered  on 
all  was  neither  sunlight  nor  moonlight,  but 
something  just  between. 

Yet  Son,  who  made  friends  with  everybody, 
did  not  succeed  in  making  friends  with  Nils. 
His  tentative  efforts  were  met  with  gentleness, 
and  gently  warded  off. 

At  breakfast  one  day,  Baby,  who  had  come 
down  to  wish  Father  good  morning,  and  was 
running  about  at  will,  fell  and  bumped  her 
head  smartly  on  the  floor. 

Before  Father  could  put  down  his  news 
paper,  or  Son  swallow  his  mouthful  of  egg 
(Mother  never  came  to  breakfast),  Nils  in 
one  flash  had  reached  her,  caught  her  in  his 
arms,  and  held  her  against  his  heart  with  a 
look  that  burned  into  Son's  very  soul.  He 
took  her  instantly  to  Father  and  set  her  on 
his  knee,  where  she  soon  began  to  play  with 
a  proffered  pencil,  her  woe  all  forgotten. 
129 


"Son" 

But  Son  ran  out  to  Nils  in  the  pantry, 
and,  trembling  all  over,  looked  up  into  his 
face. 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  look  at  Baby  like  that?  " 
he  said. 

Then  Nils  patted  Son's  head  reassuringly, 
and,  turning  away,  busied  himself  among  the 
dishes. 

"  Mother,"  Son  said  that  evening,  picking 
up  little  things  from  her  dressing-table,  "why 
don't  you  let  Nils  go  out  sometimes  in  the 
afternoon?  All  the  other  butlers  do." 

"  Son,"  said  Mother,  who  was  in  a  hurry, 
"  I've  told  you  a  thousand  times  to  let  those 
things  alone.  If  you  touch  them  again  you'll 
have  to  go  right  upstairs.  He  doesn't  want 
to  go  out.  He's  never  asked  me." 

She  moved  the  displaced  articles  about 
with  her  delicate  fingers,  here  a  glove  but- 
toner,  there  a  shell  comb,  creating  order 
absently. 

"  All  the  other  butlers  do,"  reiterated  Son, 
stubbornly  for  him.  Out  of  many  memories 
of  the  crowded  Mall  on  a  sunny  winter's  day, 
130 


Nils 

he  was  picking  up  one  class  for  reconsidera 
tion.  One  young  man,  who  officiated  at  the 
home  of  a  friend  of  Son's,  he  had  seen  that 
very  afternoon,  wheeling  his  baby  in  a  peram 
bulator,  while  his  young  wife  walked  at  his 
side.  Another,  older,  had  promenaded  up 
and  down  alone,  enjoying  a  cigar.  A  third, 
while  in  the  company  of  one  or  two  friends, 
had  watched  for  a  long  time  a  group  of  chil 
dren  playing  hop-scotch,  and  had  looked  as 
if  he  would  like  to  join  in  himself. 

"  Species,  Butler "  was  the  unconscious 
classification  of  all  these  persons  in  Son's 
mind. 

Mother,  who  was  ready,  gave  Son  a  hasty 
kiss,  and  ran  into  Father's  dressing-room  to 
hurry  him  up. 

Five  minutes  later  Son  heard  the  front 
door  close  behind  them.  He  ran  downstairs 
very  silently,  he  did  not  know  why  himself. 
The  house  was  full  of  shadows,  and  in  the 
unlighted  library,  as  he  tiptoed  by,  he  could 
see  on  the  ceiling,  upside  down,  the  shapes 
of  Tiny  Things  made  Tall.  The  curtains  had 


"Son" 

not  been  drawn,  and  the  street  lamps  were 
shining  in. 

Son  felt  very  queer,  and  wished  that  he 
could  turn  back,  —  but  he  couldn't.  He  felt 
that  some  one  wanted  him  there  in  the  dark. 
So  he  was  not  surprised  to  see  in  the  dimness 
of  the  lower  hall  a  motionless  figure  standing 
—  not  even  when  he  made  out  its  outline,  and 
traced  the  figure's  head  buried  in  its  hands. 

But  when  a  shudder  ran  through  the  man's 
frame,  and  he  put  out  a  hand  gropingly,  Son 
was  there,  offering  his  little  narrow  shoulder 
for  support.  For  it  was  for  this  that  he 
had  braved  the  whispering  stillness  of  the 
house. 

"Are  you  better  now?"  Son  asked 
presently. 

And  Nils  breathed  a  "  Yes." 

After  this  he  understood  the  eyes  better. 

"  I  want  you,  Son ! "  they  said  to  him,  — 
"  I  need  you !  —  But  don't  tell." 

He  felt  convinced   that  they  were  asking 
him  not  to  tell,  so  he  went  about  his  little 
affairs  busily  and  said  nothing. 
132 


Nils 

"  I  think  Son  has  something  on  his  mind," 
said  Father  one  day.  "  He  goes  around  so 
quietly  and  looks  so  solemn.  I  don't  believe 
I've  heard  him  laugh  for  a  week." 

"  He's  all  right,"  Mother  answered.  "You 
can't  judge  him  by  other  boys." 

"I  wish  you  could!"  said  Father  petu 
lantly.  "  Why,  a  boy  at  seven  ought  to  be 
tearing  the  house  down." 

Mother  looked  up  and  her  eyes  fell  com 
placently  upon  her  attractive  surroundings. 
It  occurred  to  her  to  be  glad  that  Son  did  not 
belong  to  the  "  tearing "  type  of  boy.  But 
she  knew  better  than  to  express  her  thought 
aloud. 

"  He'll  come  to  it  later,"  she  said. 

"  He  ought  to  have  a  boy's  interests,"  went 
on  Father,  walking  up  and  down.  "  A  dog, 
for  instance.  Why  couldn't  he  have  a  dog?" 

"  He's  afraid  of  dogs,"  said  Mother  quickly, 
in  sudden  perturbation,  forgetting  all  her  tact. 

"Afraid!"  stormed  Father.  "Who  ever 
heard  of  such  a  thing?  I'll  bring  one  home 
to-night." 

133 


"Son" 

Poor  Mother  thought  sorrowfully  of  chewed 
chairs  and  marred  woodwork.  But  she  knew 
that  she  had  lost  her  chance.  "  How  idiotic 
of  me !  "  she  reflected. 

Meanwhile  Father  was  hanging  by  a  strap 
in  the  subway  train,  his  mind  full  of  ferocious 
bulldogs,  valiant  St  Bernards,  and  other 
canines.  He  came  out  into  the  frosty  air 
and  made  for  his  office. 

Walking  quickly,  he  had  almost  arrived  at 
the  roped  off  space  behind  which,  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  the  curb  brokers  were 
gesticulating  inanely,  when  something  ar 
rested  his  attention.  A  man  was  holding  out 
for  his  inspection  an  infinitesimal  atom  of 
dog  flesh. 

"  Nice  dog !  "  said  the  man  insinuatingly. 
And  the  puppy  blinked  in  Father's  direction 
with  his  brown,  velvety  eyes. 

Father  hesitated. 

"  It  isn't  the  right  type  of  dog,"  he  said  to 
himself,  trying  to  be  resolute.     And  in  this 
he  did  not  make  any  mistake,  for  the  puppy 
belonged  to  no  known  species. 
134 


Nils 

In  another  moment  he  had  bought  it  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket. 

At  his  desk,  having  carefully  shut  the  door 
of  his  private  office,  thus  giving  to  office  boy 
and  stenographer  the  impression  that  he  had 
important  business  to  transact,  he  sat  down, 
and  took  the  little  soft,  foolish  face  between 
his  hands.  There  he  sat  for  a  long  time, 
answering  the  little  creature's  irresistible 
appeal. 

"  You  and  Son  have  got  to  be  friends. 
Friends,  do  you  hear,  Fulsy?"  said  Father. 
Then  he  touched  the  cold,  wet  nose  with  his 
cheek. 

And  friends  they  were  beyond  Father's 
highest  hope  or  expectation. 

An  hour's  separation  in  the  daytime,  though 
it  was  hard  enough,  might  be  borne,  but  at 
night  .  .  . 

Mathilde  was  almost  ready  to  give  notice. 
"It  is  ridicule!"  she  raged,  when  she  went 
down  to  the  library  to  summon  the  higher 
powers. 


"Son" 

"  You  go  up,"  said  Mother. 

Father  found  the  puppy  sitting  on  Son's 
white  bed,  his  eyes  saying  reproachfully, 
"  You  told  me  to  be  friends  with 
him !  " 

"  O  Hell ! "  said  Father.  And  he  ran 
downstairs  with  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  so  as 
not  to  hear  Mathilde. 

But  Son  cuddled  his  puppy  all  night,  his 
face  against  its  quickly  beating  heart. 

Whenever  his  secret  threatened  to  weigh 
on  him  too  heavily,  Son  had  only  to  look 
at  Fulsy  to  be  strengthened  and  cheered. 
Father,  in  trying  to  make  a  man  of  Son,  bad 
but  given  him  another  object  that  appealed 
to  the  Mother  in  him. 

Father  might  just  as  well  have  let  him 
alone.  For  it  was  God  that  worked  in  him 
both  to  will  and  to  do  of  his  good  pleasure. 
Son  was  just  as  God  made  him. 

So  thought  Nils,  who  continued  to  look  at 
him  with  devouring  eyes.  Though  he  talked 
no  more  than  before,  he  had  never  dis 
couraged  Son's  presence  near  him  since  that 
136 


Nils 

night  in  the  hall.  Son  loved  to  hover  around, 
Fulsy  in  his  arm,  watching  him  at  his  work. 
Nils  had  the  most  wonderful  hands,  so  nervous 
and  skilful.  They  were  white  as  ivory,  and 
as  delicately  veined  as  the  birch  leaves  whose 
tracery  Son  had  often  followed  last  Autumn 
with  his  finger,  when  he  had  picked  up  one 
that  had  fluttered  to  the  ground. 

It  happened  more  than  once,  when  Son 
was  standing  by,  that  the  hands,  working  so 
feverishly,  faltered  and  stopped.  Then  Son 
waited,  anxious  and  ready.  But  whatever  it 
might  be  that  was  wrong  with  the  machine 
it  righted  itself,  and  went  on,  tremulously  at 
first,  then  steadily  as  before. 

Every  second  Sunday  Nils  went  out,  unless 
there  were  guests  for  dinner.  When  this 
occasionally  happened,  Son  divined  that  Nils 
was  bitterly  disappointed.  So  was  Son,  for. 
these  Sundays  were  the  bright  spot  in  his 
vigil.  When  he  came  down  to  breakfast  on 
the  Monday  following,  he  knew  there  would 
be  a  gleam  of  color  in  his  friend's  thin  cheeks, 
a  light  that  was  almost  happy  in  his  eyes. 
137 


"Son" 

And  Son  would  hug  Fulsy,  and  a  great  weight 
would  be  lifted  from  his  heart. 

One  night  Fulsy  had  been  taken  down  to 
the  kitchen  to  his  bath.  Mathilde  had  been 
adamant.  "  Qu'il  est  sale,  ce  chien ! "  she 
had  wailed,  sweeping  him  firmly  from  the 
bed  into  her  apron.  "You  t'ink  I  'ave  not'in' 
to  do  but  wash  dogs,  huh?"  she  had  said 
accusingly  to  Son,  turning  out  his  light. 

Then  she  had  disappeared  and  left  Son 
lying  there,  thinking  that  he  knew  just  how 
Fulsy  was  feeling  at  that  moment.  Mathilde 
was  thorough  both  with  dogs  and  boys,  and 
cleanliness  was  her  god. 

Son  was  so  lonely  that  he  could  hardly 
bear  it.  If  you  have  never  had  a  dog,  it 
would  be  different,  but  when  you  have  been 
used  for  twenty-one  nights  to  a  little  hot, 
palpitating  live  thing  beside  you  .  .  . 

Son  started  up  in  bed,  almost  deafened 
by  the  beating  of  his  heart.  Mathilde,  with 
pretended  forgetfulness,  had  left  his  door 
a  little  open.  And  while  he  was  thinking  of 
Fulsy,  far  below  he  had  heard  the  muffled 
138 


Nils 

sound  of  a  fall.  Son  got  out  of  bed,  and  in 
his  pajamas  flew  down  the  stairs,  his  little 
bare  feet  sinking  noiselessly  into  the  heavy 
carpet,  the  confused  sounds  below  growing 
momently  more  distinct. 

"  In  here !  We'll  carry  him  in  here,"  he 
heard  Father  say,  and  then  a  door  was  shut. 

Son  went  into  the  drawing-room,  where 
stood  two  or  three  ladies  in  a  frightened 
group,  —  not  Mother. 

"  Where's  Mother  ?  "  cried  Son,  running  up. 

"  In  there,"  said  one  of  the  ladies,  indicat 
ing  the  closed  library  door. 

No  one  commented  on  his  presence  or  his 
costume.  The  moment  was  too  grave  for  that. 
They  treated  Son  as  one  of  themselves. 

Never  had  Son  heard  anything  with  such 
a  sense  of  relief  as  the  opening  of  that  door. 

"  He'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute,"  said  Fa 
ther,  coming  out.  "  He's  coming  to."  He 
was  followed  by  the  other  men,  with  Mother, 
who  led  her  guests  back  to  the  dining-room, 
Father  promising  to  join  them  as  soon  as  the 
doctor  should  arrive. 

139 


"Son" 

"Nothing  serious,  I  hope  .  .  .  just  faint .  .  . 
Lucky  it  was  no  worse  .  .  ."  Son  heard  as 
their  voices  died  away  in  the  distance. 

But  the  dinner,  which  was  served  by  the 
parlor  maid  with  long  pauses  between  the 
courses,  was  an  effort  for  everybody,  and  as 
soon  as  it  was  over  the  guests  left,  no  less 
glad  to  escape  than  Mother  was  to  see 
them  go. 

The  doctor  had  come,  but  Father  had  not 
put  in  an  appearance  to  bid  his  visitors  good 
night.  Mother  ran  upstairs  hurriedly. 

Nils  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  fully  conscious, 
Father  and  the  doctor  were  bending  over  him, 
and  Son  in  his  pajamas,  with  his  little  pink 
soles  turned  up,  was  kneeling  beside  him, 
holding  his  hand. 

How  long  he  would  have  stayed  there  will 
never  be  known,  for  it  had  not  occurred  to 
any  one  to  put  him  out,  had  not  Mathilda 
appeared  in  the  doorway  with  his  slippers  in 
one  hand  and  his  wrapper  —  the  red  one 
with  the  white  Teddy  bears,  that  he  delighted 
in  —  in  the  other. 

140 


Nils 

"  But  they  should  have  '  honte '  to  let  him 
in  his  '  robe-de-nuit '  like  that !  "  she  mur 
mured,  real  consternation  in  her  voice.  And 
having  disengaged  his  hand  gently  from  the 
eager  clasp  of  the  sick  man,  she  wrapped 
him  in  his  belongings  and  prepared  to  carry 
him  off. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Son  miserably. 

"  Non,  and  leave  a  little  dog  waitin'  for 
you  upstairs?"  said  Mathilda.  "  Tu  ne  sais 
pas  comme  il  s'impatiente,  ce  'Fulsie,'  — 
va!" 

And  Son  protested  no  more. 

The  next  morning  Mother  came  down  to 
breakfast.  Baby's  nurse  had  gone  to  church, 
Mathilde  was  busy,  and  there  did  not  seem 
to  be  any  one  to  carry  up  her  tray. 

Son  was  thankful  that  it  was  Sunday,  for 
he  could  not  have  borne  to  be  hurried  off  to 
school.  Mother  did  not  sit  down  behind  the 
coffee-pot,  but  walked  up  and  down,  waiting 
impatiently  for  Father  to  come  in. 

"  How  is  he?"  she  cried  when  she  saw  him. 
141 


"Son" 

"  Easier  this  morning,"  he  answered.  "  But 
we  shall  have  to  tell  him  what  the  doctor 
said."  He  bit  his  lip,  catching  Mother's 
quick  glance  in  Son's  direction. 

But  Son  had  heard  nothing.  He  was 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts.  What  week 
was  this?  No  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  . 

"  It's  Nils'  Sunday  out !  "  he  cried  pite- 
ously.  "  Oh,  what  will  he  do  !  Poor  Nils  !  " 

It  was  indeed  Nils'  Sunday  out.  But  he 
did  not  go  to  the  mysterious  regions  from 
which  he  was  wont  to  bring  back  that  fitful 
color  and  that  light  of  eyes.  He  went  to  the 
hospital  instead. 

Son  loved  the  whiteness  of  it,  —  the  shining 
wards,  the  muslin-curtained  windows,  the 
flower-pots,  and  the  spotless  beds.  He  loved 
above  all  Nils'  welcoming  look  when  he 
came. 

After  the  second  visit  came  a  busy  season 

for  Mother,  —  days  packed  with  engagements. 

She   did   not   know  herself  how   they  were 

slipping   by.     But  when  Son   asked  her  for 

142 


Nils 

the  hundredth  time,  she  took  an  hour  and 
went  with  him  to  the  hospital.  Fulsy  went 
too. 

The  white  bed  was  empty.  No  head  had 
pressed  the  pillow.  For  this  was  a  paying 
ward,  —  Father  and  Mother  had  seen  to  that, 
—  and  not  as  overcrowded  as  the  free  ones. 

"  Where  is  he?  "  Mother  demanded  of  the 
nurse,  her  voice  sharp  with  anxiety. 

"  Oh,  seventeen,  you  mean?  Such  a  good 
patient.  He  never  asked  for  anything.  He 
left  last  week.  Said  he  wanted  to  go  home." 

"  Home?"  said  Mother,  entirely  at  a  loss. 

But  Son's  heart  leaped  with  joy.  He  could 
look  down  a  long  vista  of  days  in  Nils'  life,  — 
days  that  were  all  rilled  with  the  happiness 
that  used  to  come  but  twice  a  month. 

"  Of  course  ! "  he  laughed.  "  That  was 
where  he  went  on  his  Sundays  out !  Home  !  " 

They  went  in  the  motor  to  the  address 
Mother  had  obtained  at  the  office. 

Mother  was  still  puzzled,  —  almost  angry 
with  Nils.  She  was  surprised,  too,  at  the 
house  in  which  he  was  living.  The  neighbor- 
143 


"Son" 

hood  was  poor,  but  the  house  was  modern 
and  cheerful.  Some  of  the  landings  were 
being  scrubbed  as  Mother  and  Son  climbed 
by,  and  the  little  square  tiles  shone. 

The  door  of  the  flat  was  opened  by  a 
woman,  still  young  and  pretty.  Behind  her 
stood  a  boy  of  Son's  age,  but  taller,  holding 
his  little  sister  by  the  hand.  The  woman  was 
dressed  in  black. 

Then  Mother  knew.  And  without  a  word 
she  opened  her  arms  and  drew  into  them  this 
other  woman.  There  they  stood  for  many 
minutes,  their  two  bright  heads  together. 
They  were  soon  talking  as  women  may  talk 
to  one  another. 

"  He  never  told  me  he  was  married,"  said 
Mother. 

"  No,  Madame,"  said  his  wife.  "  He  did 
not  tell  after  he  began  to  be  sick.  It  was 
easier  to  get  a  place  as  a  single  man." 

"How  long  had  he  been  ill?"  Mother 
asked. 

"  About  five  years,"  the  woman  answered. 

"  Oh,  how  must  he  have  felt  when  he 
144 


Nils 

was  working !  How  could  he  work !  "  cried 
Mother. 

Nils'  wife  looked  over  to  where  her  children 
were  standing,  the  boy's  arm  thrown  protect- 
ingly  now  about  his  sister's  shoulders.  For 
little  Alma  was  shy.  She  looked,  and  her 
lips  quivered. 

"  He  had  to  work,  Madame,"  she  said. 

"  How  many  places  did  he  have?"  asked 
Mother  when  she  could  speak. 

"  Two,"  answered  the  woman.  "  He  would 
work  as  long  as  he  could, —  until  they  found 
it  out.  Then  he  would  go  away." 

"Didn't  they  do  anything  for  him?" 
cried  Mother,  aghast  at  such  heartlessness. 

"The  last  lady  was  very  kind,"  returned 
the  woman  gently.  "  She  gave  him  twenty- 
five  dollars  when  he  left.  He  had  paid  out 
about  twenty-three  for  express  packages  and 
telegrams.  But  she  had  forgotten  that.  And 
she  said  she  would  give  him  a  good  reference." 

Mother's  mind  went  back  to  the  perfect 
reference  over  the  telephone. 

"  He  wouldn't  let  me  work,"  the  woman 
145 


"Son" 

went  on.  "  He  wanted  me  to  be  with  the 
children.  He  was  so  proud  of  little  Petersen." 
Her  voice  broke. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  He  came  home  to  die,"  the  woman  said 
at  last  reverently.  "  He  didn't  want  to  die 
in  the  hospital.  He  would  not  let  you  know, 
for  he  said  you  had  done  enough  for  him." 

"  Oh,  why  didn't  he?  "  cried  Mother. 

"  He  was  always  like  that,"  she  responded 
with  loving  pride.  "  He  did  not  want  to 
trouble  any  one.  He  was  happy  with  you," 
she  added,  brightening.  "  Oh,  how  precious 
to  him  were  your  children !  " 

Mother's  eyes  were  riveted  on  this  woman, 
who,  with  quiet  dignity  and  in  quaint  English, 
sat  telling  her  of  the  tragedy  of  her  life. 
She  contrasted  with  this  her  own  protected 
existence,  and  she  felt  humbled  to  the  dust. 

"  He  was  sorry,"  said  Nils'  wife,  "  that  he 
frightened  you  so  much.  He  knew  that  it 
was  the  end  .  .  .  But  he  could  not  know  it 
would  come  so  soon.  It  was  his  regret  that 
he  did  not  give  his  notice  —  " 
146 


Nils 

"  Don't !  "  said  Mother.  For  five  years 
they  have  been  getting  ready  —  for  this  .  .  . 
she  thought. 

It  was  true.  They  had  accepted  it  long 
ago,  after  the  manner  of  their  race. 

The  loss  .  .  .  thought  Mother  .  .  .  The 
loss  of  him  .  .  .  When  she  had  never  had 
him  .  .  .  Oh,  God,  wasn't  that  enough? 

But  there  was  more,  much  more  besides. 
Mother  saw  it  all  in  one  terrible  flash,  saw  it 
more  distinctly  than  she  had  ever  seen  any 
thing  in  all  her  life.  The  neat  room,  the 
well-dressed  children,  —  all  —  all  paid  for 
with  the  man's  heart's  blood.  And  this 
woman,  who  loved  him,  had  had  to  stay  by 
and  see  him  give  it,  even  to  the  last  drop. 
What  was  to  become  of  them  now? 

"  You  won't  give  up  your  children  !  "  cried 
Mother. 

"  Never,"  said  the  woman  solemnly,  lifting 
up  her  head.  Her  eyes  looked  into  the  dis 
tance,  and  she  said  it  as  though  she  were 
making  a  promise  to  some  one  beyond. 

"  He  longed  so  to  see  your  son  once  more," 
H7 


"Son" 

she  went  on  after  a  minute.  "  But  it  could 
not  be.  It  was  a  little  child  !  His  last  words 
were  of  him." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  asked  Mother  through 
her  tears. 

"  Don't  cry,"  repeated  Nils'  wife,  control 
ling  her  voice.  "  He  is  the  angel  sent  of  God 
to  help  you  —  when  I  can  help  you  no  more." 

When  they  had  looked  at  each  other 
enough,  Petersen  and  Son  had  made  friends, 
as  boys  will. 

"  She's  not  as  big  as  Baby,"  said  Son,  in 
dicating  the  little  girl,  who  was  eyeing  him 
askance. 

" But  she's  big"  said  Petersen  quickly, 
drawing  Alma  forward.  "Where  did  you 
get  him  ?  "  he  asked,  his  eyes  on  Fulsy. 

"  Father  brought  him  home  to  me  from 
downtown.  Is  Nils  your  father?"  said  Son. 

"  My  Papa   is   dead,"  said   Petersen.     He 
could   not   help    feeling   a   little    important. 
And,  after  all,  people  cannot   get  very  well 
acquainted  in  two  half  days  a  month. 
148 


Nils 

Son's  head  swam.  Nils  was  dead,  — Nils, 
whom  he  had  so  loved ;  Nils,  who  had  been 
this  boy's  father. 

"  He's  a  good  little  pup,"  said  Petersen, 
still  looking  at  Fulsy,  who  wriggled  to  be 
free. 

Son  went  up  to  the  boy,  —  this  boy,  whose 
father  had  been  Nils,  —  Nils,  who  was  now 
dead,  —  and  put  Fulsy  into  his  arms. 

"  He's  for  you,"  said  Son. 


149 


BILL 


BILL 


""TTCTHAT  a  pity  he  has  no  boys  to  play 

V  T  with !  "  said  Father.  "  Companions 
of  his  own  age  are  just  what  he  needs." 

"  I  don't  know  how  he  would  get  on  with 
them,"  Mother  answered  doubtfully.  "  Per 
haps  boys  wouldn't  like  him.  He's  always 
been  so  much  with  older  people." 

While  they  were  talking  about  him,  Son 
was  standing  a  mile  down  the  road,  leaning 
on  his  bicycle,  motionless  and  absorbed.  On 
the  other  side  of  a  wooden  fence  another 
boy  was  weeding  in  a  vegetable  garden. 

"  How  much  have  you  done  ?  "  asked  Son. 

"  A  good  bit,"  answered  the  other  shortly. 
He  was  not  working  to  kill  time,  but  as  if  his 
heart  were  in  it.  And  his  supple  little  brown 
hands  moved  cheerfully,  with  no  small  deft 
ness.  Their  callous  hardness  detracted  not  a 
whit  from  the  soft  and  beautiful  moulding 
153 


"Son" 

that  belongs  to  the  hands  of  a  child,  and  as 
he  pulled  up  the  weeds,  the  bent  knuckles 
showed  the  delicacy  of  their  lines  through 
the  dirt.  Hands  of  babe,  but  back  of  old 
man,  —  so  determined,  and  weary,  and  bent. 
Son's  eye  caught  the  line  of  it. 

"  Come  and  play  with  me  !  "  he  invited. 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"  Ain't  got  time,"  he  said. 

"  They  don't  make  you  do  it !  "  cried  Son, 
in  horror  at  such  a  possibility. 

"Make  me?  "  answered  the  boy.     "  Nope." 

Son  stood  silent.  It  seemed  impossible  to 
get  any  information  out  of  his  laconic  friend. 

"  I'll  help  you  !  "  he  said. 

The  boy  smiled,  showing  two  rows  of 
straight  white  teeth. 

"  You  do  that  end,"  he  directed,  pointing. 

Son,  streaming  with  sweat,  stole  an  occa 
sional  surreptitious  glance  at  his  hardier  com 
panion,  who  appeared  oblivious  of  the  direct 
rays  of  the  sun.  Bees  droned,  light  waves 
glimmered  in  the  haze,  and  into  Son's  nostrils 
penetrated  good  odors  of  earth  and  growing 
154 


Bill 

things.  He  shook  off  the  drops  that  oozed 
out  of  his  forehead,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
the  little  hammer  that  beat  on  his  temples. 

"  This  bed's  nearly  done !  "  he  cried  at 
length,  when  the  rays  had  begun  to  slant. 

The  other  boy  said  nothing,  but  he  stretched 
himself  slowly  into  an  erect  position,  and  Son 
knew  that  they  had  toiled  enough.  Together 
they  climbed  the  fence  and  stood  looking  at 
the  bicycle. 

"Don't  you  want  a  ride?"  suggested  Son. 

"Don't  know  how,"  admitted  the  boy, 
ashamed. 

"  Of  course  not,"  Son  said  quickly,  "  if  you 
haven't  got  one.  It's  easy,  though." 

"  Learn  me ! "  The  demand  was  made 
eagerly. 

"  It's  rather  hard  in  bare  feet,"  commented 
Son.  But  he  changed  his  mind  when  he 
found  out  how  the  leathery  soles  could  grip 

"  You're  great !  "  he  cried. 

"  G'wan,"  replied  the  other  modestly. 

The  sun  was  drawing  toward  the  west,  a 
red  ball  of  fire  and  smoke  was  curling  upward 
155 


"Son" 

invitingly  from  the  red  chimneys  of  the  farm 
house  near  by,  when  the  boy  terminated  the 
lesson  abruptly. 

"  I've  got  to  go  to  supper,"  he  said. 

Son  watched  him  run  off  down  the  pink- 
tinged  road  between  the  rows  of  ash  trees, 
and  disappear  into  the  house.  Then  he 
mounted  his  bicycle  and  rode  off  contentedly 
enough,  for  though  no  word  had  been  said 
there  was  a  tacit  understanding  between  the 
two  that  they  should  meet  on  the  morrow. 
A  hermit  thrush  accompanied  Son  with  its 
song,  exulting  in  the  delicious  chill  that 
comes  of  a  Maine  evening  after  the  hottest  day. 

Mother  heard  the  crunching  of  his  wheel, 
that  made  the  tiny  pebbles  fly  on  the  drive 
way,  and  came  out,  in  fresh  linen  and  a  great 
shade  hat,  looking  too  tidy  to  touch.  Never 
theless  she  put  her  arm  about  his  reeking 
person. 

"  How  hot  you  are !  "  she  said.     "  Where 
have  you  been  ?  "     Then,  not  waiting  for  him 
to  answer,  —  a  habit  of  hers,  —  "  You'll  just 
have  time  to  dress.     Run  along !  " 
156 


Bill 

Son's  thoughts  were  many  as  he  went 
through  this  useless  performance.  It  occurred 
to  him  to  envy  that  other  boy,  who,  work  over, 
could  sit  down  just  as  he  was,  begrimed  and 
happy,  to  eat  his  well-earned  food  after  labor. 

It  took  three  days  to  finish  the  vegetable 
garden.  Then  the  boys  began  killing  potato- 
bugs,  —  a  much  more  difficult  task.  And 
finally  it  was  proposed  that  they  should  go 
a-berrying  on  the  mountains,  an  alluring  pros 
pect.  Son  dug  his  toe  into  the  edge  of  an 
ant-hill,  weighing  this  suggestion.  His  shoes 
and  stockings  were  flung  in  a  heap  under  a 
hammock,  together  with  his  coat  and  neck 
tie.  The  sinews  showed  in  his  legs,  and  he 
Stretched  his  toes  luxuriously.  One  might 
learn  much  in  three  days  as  regarded  one's 
comfort.  From  under  his  eyebrows  he 
glanced  up  at  his  new  friend  shyly.  How 
explain  to  him  ?  It  had  pleased  Son  to  keep 
utter  silence  at  home  as  to  his  agricultural 
pursuits  —  and  for  a  reason  most  embarrass 
ing  to  divulge. 

157 


"Son" 

Last  night,  work  finished,  the  two  had  re 
galed  themselves  with  boyish  sports,  —  ball 
playing,  running  races,  jumping.  Son  was 
serving  an  apprenticeship.  His  new  friend, 
taller,  stronger,  toughened  by  exposure  and 
outdoor  life,  was  his  model.  Last  night  Son 
had  watched  him  running,  his  little  body  sil 
houetted  against  a  glowing  sky,  head  thrown 
back,  teeth  flashing  in  a  joyous  smile,  throat 
bare,  lean  arms  bare,  legs  bare,  weight  flung 
in  ecstasy  on  the  evening  breeze.  This,  then, 
was  a  boy.  This  was  what  was  meant  by 
"  manly." 

Son's  heart  burned  with  a  fury  of  admira 
tion, —  of  desire  to  emulate,  mingled  strangely 
with  a  feeling  of  romance.  This  new  thing,  — 
a  playmate,  —  and  such  a  playmate! — was 
his  discovery.  Son  had  ferreted  him  out,  — 
digging  sedately  with  bent  shoulders  among 
onions  and  cabbages,  —  had  shared  his  labor, 
thus  gaining  a  magic  key  to  his  confidence, 
and  had  appropriated  him.  He  could  not 
drag  him  out  for  everybody  to  handle ! 

Son's  conscience  was  perfectly  clear.  His 
158 


Bill 

friend's  abode  —  the  white  farm-house  —  was 
within  bounds.  Did  not  the  rules  done  into 
rhyme  by  Father  for  his  easy  memorizing, 
and  hanging  in  full  sight  on  the  door  of  the 
coat  closet,  contain  this  couplet,  — 

"One  long  mile  in  each  direction 
You  may  go  without  correction  "  ? 

Son  decided  to  give  up  the  berrying,  since 
the  not  doing  so  involved  asking  permission 
and  thus  divulging  his  secret. 

"  You  will  have  to  go  without  me,"  he  said 
with  a  great  sigh.  And  he  watched  his 
friend  off,  —  pail  swinging,  feet  treading  so 
berly,  as  if  it  were  no  wonderful  privilege  to 
do  and  go  wherever  you  pleased. 

"  I  didn't  tell  him  why,"  thought  Son  with 
satisfaction.  "  He  doesn't  think  so  much  of 
me  anyhow !  He'd  say  I  was  a  silly  !  " 

"Weren't  you  lonely?"  asked  Son,  when 
the  endless  hours  had  gone  round  and  it  was 
the  next  morning. 

The  boy's  great  eyes  widened. 

"Me!"  he  said. 

159 


"Son" 

Son  secretly  determined  never  to  be  lonely 
again. 

"  Did  you  get  caught  in  the  thunder 
shower?"  he  went  on. 

"Yep,"  answered  his  friend  indifferently. 
"  I  kep '  right  on  pickin'.  I  got  four  quarts." 

"  You  must  have  been  soaked  !  "  cried  Son. 

His  friend  gave  him  a  commiserating  look. 
"Ain't  you  ever  been  wet?"  he  asked. 

"Not  —  not  very  often,"  admitted  Son, 
longing  for  another  thunder  shower,  that  he 
might  walk  abroad  in  it. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  boy  suddenly. 

Son  waited,  never  having  had  any  intention 
of  leaving. 

The  boy  came  back,  running,  from  the 
house.  Before  Son's  astonished  gaze  he  held 
out  a  handful  of  pennies,  their  hue  matched 
by  the  rich  brown  of  his  hands. 

"  Your  share,"  he  said.  "  I've  counted  'em 
over  twice.  There's  ten  of  'em." 

"What  for?"  wondered  Son. 

"  For  the  weedin',"  said  the  boy.  "  And 
the  bugs.  Weedin's  a  cent  a  row.  Bugs, 
160 


Bill 

five  cents  a  hundred.    Dad  paid  up  last  night. 
But  there  ain't  near  enough  yet." 

Son  put  the  pennies  in  his  pocket. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  with  yours?" 
asked  the  boy. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Son.  "What  are 
you?" 

The  boy  came  quite  close,  hands  in 
pockets. 

"  I'm  goin '  to  the  fair  at  Elliston,"  he  said, 
and  stood  back  to  witness  the  effect  of  the 
statement. 

It  produced  no  effect  on  Son  at  all. 

"  It's  seven  mile,"  he  added  disappointedly. 

"Do  you  drive  there?"  asked  Son.  Dis 
tances  meant  little  to  him. 

"  Nope,"  said  the  boy.     "  Walk." 

Son  was  beginning  to  be  impressed. 
Walk  —  seven  miles  and  back  —  to  a  fair ! 

"  You  can  take  my  bicycle !  "  he  cried  in 
sudden  inspiration. 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"  I  wouldn't  dast,"  he  said.    "  Might  smash 
it,  or  somethin'.     Dad  'd  be  mad." 
161 


"Son" 

Son  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  fished  up 
the  pennies  and  held  them  out. 

"  I  don't  need  them  !  "  he  said.  "  I'm  not 
going  to  the  fair  !  " 

The  boy  did  not  move.  His  lips  drew 
together  stubbornly. 

"  You  earned  'em  !  "  he  said.  "  They're 
yourn." 

Son  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  stood, 
uncomfortable  and  helpless,  hating  the  reward 
of  his  labor  of  love. 

"Did  you  sell  the  berries?"  he  asked,  not 
knowing  what  else  to  say. 

The  boy  grinned. 

"  Nothin'  in  that  deal !  "  he  answered.  "  I 
took  'em  to  five  houses,  but  no  one  wanted 
berries.  Ma's  goin'  to  use  'em  for  pies." 

Son  was  aghast  The  long  day  on  the 
mountain  in  blistering  sunlight,  —  the  sudden 
storm.  Wind,  bringing  in  its  wake  drenching 
sheets  of  rain,  —  heat,  wet,  weariness,  fruitless 
hawking  about  of  his  hard-earned  wares. 

"  It's  too  bad  !  "  stammered  Son. 

The  boy  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
162 


Bill 

"  No  '  get  rich  quick '  for  me,  I  guess,"  he 
said  philosophically.  "  I'd  better  stick  to 
bugs.  Want  to  play  horse  ?  " 

They  got  the  wagon,  made  of  a  packing 
box,  out  of  the  shed. 

"  I'll  pull  you  !  "  cried  Son.  "  I'll  pull  you 
all  the  time  !  " 

The  boy  frowned. 

"You  haul  me,"  he  said,  "and  then  I'll 
haul  you. " 

And  with  this  arrangement  Son  was  forced 
to  be  content. 

That  night  in  bed  his  thoughts  flew  back 
to  his  friend.  "  He  meant  to  pay  me  all  the 
time,"  he  reflected.  "  He  let  me  weed,  when 
he  could  have  done  it  all  himself,  and  kept  all 
the  money."  Son  wriggled  his  head  on  the 
pillow.  "  It's  no  use  to  tell  Mother,"  he  de 
cided.  "  If  he  wouldn't  let  me  help  him,  he'd 
never  let  her" 

"  He  won't  let  me  be  generous  to  him," 
was  his  last  waking  thought,  "when  he's  so 
generous  to  me.  What  can  I  do  with  him?  " 

Father  and  Mother  commented  on  Son's 
163 


"Son" 

appearance  with  great  satisfaction  to  them 
selves. 

"  The  country  air  is  doing  him  good ! " 
said  Mother  oracularly. 

"  He  looks  hard  as  nails  !  "  agreed  Father 
with  enthusiasm. 

As  fair  time  drew  near  and  the  little  store 
of  pennies  waxed  but  slowly,  the  boy  re 
doubled  his  energy.  No  time  now  for  play 
ing  horse.  No  strength  for  Olympic  feats  in 
the  sunset !  Work,  work,  work !  Up  to  the 
limit  of  endurance, — and  ending  only  with 
the  latest  glimmer  of  daylight.  Son's  heart 
ached  as  he  stood  by  inactive,  and  saw  the 
strong  little  shoulders  droop  more  and  more, 
—  the  supple  feet  shuffle  through  the  furrows. 
One  day  he  could  find  his  friend  nowhere, 
and  he  was  moved  to  take  his  courage  in  his 
hands  and  knock  at  the  farm-house  door.  He 
was  admitted  by  a  pleasant-looking,  elderly 
woman,  wiping  her  hands  in  her  apron. 

"Bill's  sick,"  she  replied  in  answer  to  his 
inquiries.  "Been  feverish  all  night.  I  put 

him  to  bed." 

164 


Bill 

Son  was  choking  with  anxiety. 

"Do  you  think  he'll  be  well  in  time  for  the 
Elliston  fair  next  week  ?"  he  asked. 

"Fair?"  she  asked  vaguely.  "Was  he 
goin'  ?  Oh,  yes,  he'll  be  well  in  a  day  or  two. 
Just  a  touch  of  the  sun,  I  guess." 

"  Can  I  see  him?"  Son  begged. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Bill's  mother.  "  Come  this 
way." 

Son  was  shocked  at  his  friend's  face. 

"Oh,  Bill,"  he  whispered,  "I'm  so  sorry 
you're  sick !  " 

"Tain't  nothin',"  the  boy  muttered.  "  I'll 
stay  here  to-day.  Can't  stay  any  longer,  you 
bet!" 

He  moved  restlessly,  and  Son  thought  he 
had  better  go. 

"I've  got  all  but  nineteen  cents!"  Bill 
called  after  him. 

Son,  full  of  apprehension,  could  hardly 
bear  the  beating  of  his  heart  next  day  as  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  now  familiar  white  house. 
Yes —  no  — yes,  —  surely,  that  was  Bill,  dig 
ging  dandelions ! 

165 


"Son" 

"  Hurrah !  "  shouted  Son,  vaulting  from 
his  bicycle. 

Bill  looked  up,  smiling  weakly. 

"I've  got  a  big  bunch  already!"  he  said 
in  a  hoarse  and  tremulous  voice,  and  went 
on  picking. 

"You're  not  really  better !"  cried  Son  with 
sharp  intuition. 

"  Bah  !  "  was  Bill's  reply. 

"Did  your  mother  let  you  get  up?"  Son 
asked. 

"  It's  washin'  day,"  was  the  succinct  answer. 

Son  did  not  appreciate  all  that  this  remark 
connoted. 

"How  much  are  you  going  to  earn?"  he 
asked. 

"A  dollar,"  replied  Bill  promptly. 

"  It  doesn't  cost  all  that  to  get  in,  does  it?" 
asked  Son. 

"  Nope,"  Bill  replied.  "  You  git  in  for  a 
quarter." 

"What  do  you  want  the  rest  for?"  Son 
was  puzzled. 

"Ma  never  gits  to  a  fair  nohow,"  was  the 
166 


Bill 

irrelevant  reply.  "When  she  ain't  washin' 
she's  makin'  pies,  er  dryin'  fish,  er  some- 
thin'."  Bill's  brown  eyes  deepened  and 
glowed,  as  though  he  were  seeing  visions  and 
dreaming  dreams.  "  Mebbe  they'd  have  dress- 
goods  there.  I  dunno!"  he  added  thoughtfully. 

Son's  ideas  as  to  the  buying  power  of 
seventy-five  cents  did  not  differ  materially 
from  those  of  his  friend.  Together  they 
stood  lost  in  thought  over  the  disbursing  of 
so  goodly  a  sum.  Then  Bill  went  back  to 
his  dandelions. 

Son,  in  bed,  deliciously  drowsy,  heard  the 
rustling  of  trees  in  a  strong  north-west  breeze. 
It  sounded  wild,  but  it  wasn't  really,  for  the 
warm  wind  as  it  moved  along  had  swept  up 
every  smell  of  earth  and  trees  and  flowers, 
and  was  flinging  them  in  mingled  odors 
through  his  window.  The  light  that  fell  was 
caught  from  the  gold  of  the  little  sails  that 
flapped  on  the  bay,  and  from  the  bright 
wings  of  sea-gulls.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  feel 
ing  that  something  portentous  was  about  to 
happen.  Well,  so  it  was ! 
167 


"Son" 

Son,  fully  awake,  realized  that  this  was  the 
day  of  the  Elliston  fair.  In  a  tumult  of  joy 
he  tumbled  out,  and  dressed  with  feverish 
haste.  Not  that  there  was  any  need  to  hurry, 
for  he  should  not  see  his  friend  that  day. 
Bill  had  been  on  his  way  there  many  hours. 
Son  stopped  in  the  midst  of  brushing  his  hair, 
and  with  much  secrecy  opened  his  upper 
drawer,  and  pulled  therefrom  a  hand-knit 
boy's  sock.  Carrying  it  over  to  his  bed  with 
both  hands,  for  it  was  heavy,  he  took  it  by 
the  toe,  whereupon  its  contents  fell  with  sub 
dued  clatter  upon  the  blankets.  In  the  glit 
tering  sunshine  the  heap  of  coins  shone  gold, 
and  Son's  face  shone  too,  so  that  he  seemed 
akin  to  sails  and  wings  of  gull,  and  all  that 
breathed  and  radiated  happiness  on  such  a 
morning.  Son  picked  up  a  penny,  then  a 
nickel,  then  a  dime,  and  then  he  let  a  little 
heap  of  coins  trickle  through  his  fingers,  so 
that  he  could  come  close  to  Bill,  —  his  Bill, — 
at  thought  of  whom  his  bosom  swelled  with 
pride  that  a  boy  like  himself  had  earned  every 
penny  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  Son  had 
168 


Bill 

hated  to  accept  the  pile  the  day  before  in  ex 
change  for  his  own  crisp  one  dollar  note.  It 
took  all  his  friend's  practical  efforts  to  per 
suade  him  that  he  was  giving  an  equivalent 
for  what  he  received. 

"  I  could  never  carry  it  in  the  stocking  !  " 
Bill  had  laughed.  "  Walkin'  all  that  way ! 
I'd  swelter !  " 

"Where  will  you  put  the  dollar?"  Son 
had  asked  anxiously. 

"  Dunno,"  Bill  said,  scratching  his  head. 

The  decision  had  been  difficult,  Bill  not 
wearing  winter  shoes  into  which  a  bank  note 
might  be  stuffed,  nor  hat  in  whose  lining  it 
could  be  concealed.  Finally  they  had  put  it 
in  his  trousers'  pocket,  —  no  less  obvious 
receptacle  offering  itself. 

"  That'll  have  to  do,"  Son  had  said  in  a 
dissatisfied  manner.  "  Positive  there  are  no 
holes  in  it?  " 

To  which  Bill  had  replied,  "  Ma  mends 
them  superbly,"  but  had  nevertheless  thrust 
in  his  hand  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not 
over-stating. 

169 


"Son" 

Now  Son  toyed  with  the  money,  each  bit 
bringing  home  to  him  some  fond  memory  of 
dogged  pluck.  Truly  he  was  a  miser,  for  he 
felt  that  he  loved  the  coins  in  themselves,  and 
could  never  see  them  spent  to  the  longest 
day  of  his  life.  For  hours  he  wandered  about, 
attending  to  nothing,  his  spirit  on  the  dusty 
road,  folding  its  wings  to  toil  along  faithfully 
at  his  friend's  side. 

Even  Bill's  calmer  nature  had  felt  all  sorts 
of  inward  stirrings  when  he  had  taken  his 
candle  the  night  before  and  gone  up  to  bed. 
You  might  belong  to  good  farming  stock,  the 
backbone  of  the  country.  You  might  work 
your  ringers  to  the  bone,  showing  what  stuff 
you  were  made  of.  You  might  have  poise 
and  balance  enough  for  a  full-grown  man,  — 
but  if  you  were  a  boy,  —  a  little  boy  at  that, 
—  only  eight  years  old,  your  pulses  would 
stir  and  your  heart  leap  when  the  goal  of 
your  ambition  was  in  sight. 

Bill,  during  his  brief  undressing,  was  more 
and  more  upborne  by  an  unheard  of  and  de 
licious  excitement.  For  something  was  going 
170 


Bill 

to  happen.  Nothing  had  ever  been  going  to 
happen  before  in  all  his  life,  he  thought.  His 
mind  went  back  to  the  long  winter  evenings, 
when  his  big  brothers  sat  by,  smoking  their 
pipes,  elbows  on  knees,  and  he  sat  with  them, 
chin  on  hands,  book  resting  on  the  table, 
looking  up  every  little  while  at  his  mother, 
whose  gentle  face,  prematurely  old,  shone 
quiet  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  that  stood 
between  them,  and  whose  ever  busy  hands 
plied  the  knitting-needles  and  wrought  stock 
ings  to  clothe  the  feet  of  them  all.  Then 
perhaps  they  might  hear  a  jingle  of  bells,  and 
Dad  would  come  in  after  a  sharp,  cold  journey 
from  some  distant  mart,  his  overcoat  powdered 
with  snow.  Bill's  heart  beat  a  little  quicker 
then  with  pleasure.  Yes,  a  little  quicker. 
But  nothing  to  this ! 

Sometimes  he  shared  these  journeys  with 
one  brother  or  another  or  with  his  father,  for 
Bill  minded  his  own  business  and  was  never 
in  the  way.  Then,  as  it  grew  cold  and  night 
came  on,  he  would  huddle  down  into  his 
muffler,  and  watch  for  the  light  that  shone 
171 


"Son" 

out  of  the  window  like  a  friendly  eye.  Far 
better  than  the  frosty  stars  so  far  away,  that 
cheerful  yellow  glow  of  the  lamp  in  his  home  ! 
It  was  friendly,  to  be  sure.  But  so  many 
times  had  it  welcomed  him  that  there  was 
nothing  in  the  sight  of  it  to  stir  his  blood 
like  this,  —  like  this. 

Bill  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and 
hated  to  get  into  bed,  for  he  was  sure  he 
could  not  sleep.  In  the  room  of  his  father 
and  mother,  next  his  alcove,  all  sounds  had 
ceased.  His  brothers  on  the  other  side  had 
ended  their  monosyllabic  remarks,  for  slumber 
descended  upon  young  and  old,  in  the  white 
farm-house,  or  ever  the  mantel  clock  got 
round  to  ten.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
candle  flame  and  thought  his  thoughts,  never 
ceasing  until  there  were  two  tongues  and  two 
candlesticks,  hurting  his  eyes  so  much  that 
he  was  recalled  sharply  from  the  untoward 
and  bewildering  flights  of  his  imagination. 

It  was  still  candle-light  when  he  awoke. 
But  Bill  knew  the  feel  of  the  morning,  and 
needed  no  timepiece  to  tell  him  what  o'clock 
172 


Bill 

it  was.  "  I  want  to  be  there  early,"  he  mut 
tered,  putting  on  his  clothes.  The  cold  break 
fast  that  he  gathered  together  in  the  kitchen 
stuck  in  his  throat.  "  There'll  be  enough 
left  to  buy  a  ice-cream  cone,"  he  reflected, 
thrusting  his  hand  down  to  feel  something 
that  crinkled  deliciously.  But  being  a  person 
of  foresight  he  stuffed  into  another  pocket 
a  big  hunk  of  bread  and  a  slice  of  cheese. 
Then  he  started  out. 

The  stars  were  paling  and  had  almost  dis 
appeared  ;  fields  and  trees  began  to  glimmer 
green  instead  of  gray.  Then  the  breeze  came 
up  with  the  sun,  and  day  burst  into  being. 
Oh,  but  the  green  was  green,  and  the  blue  was 
blue !  Not  that  Bill  was  thinking  about  it, 
as  he  walked  along  at  an  even  pace,  his  dark 
eyes  burning  under  their  lashes. 

"  I  wonder  whether  there'll  be  a  two-headed 
calf,"  he  was  speculating,  as  the  sweet  air 
smote  his  forehead  and  made  him  move  the 
quicker. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  there  too  soon,"  he 
decided  presently,  and  flung  himself  un- 
173 


"Son" 

der  a  tree,  — "  not  before  the  other  folks 
come." 

No  solitude  for  him !  No  hanging  about  the 
empty  booths,  with  men  sleepily  setting  out 
their  wares  for  a  few  stragglers  to  see.  In 
with  the  crowd,  the  rush,  the  laughter !  To 
be  elbowed,  pushed,  jostled  forward !  That 
was  life ! 

He  had  timed  his  arrival  just  right.  In 
sight  of  Elliston  village  he  hurried  a  little, 
because  he  could  not  help  it.  Wheels  were 
crunching  merrily  to  right  of  him,  —  big  steel- 
tired  ones,  belonging  to  substantial  farm- 
wagons,  with  their  jolly  loads  of  holiday 
makers.  Some  of  these  were  from  his  own 
neighborhood,  and  recognized  him.  "  Hi 
there,  Bill !  Where  you  goin'  ?  Don't  buy 
the  fair  out  before  we  git  thar !  "  and  other 
pleasantries  of  equal  originality.  But  most 
of  them  were  strange  to  him.  He  took  in 
every  detail  of  their  costumes,  —  the  girls' 
frills  and  ribbons,  the  men's  high  collars, 
torturing  their  sun-burned  necks.  When  in 
his  absorption  he  was  nearly  run  down,  he 
174 


Bill 

laughed  "  fit  to  kill,"  and  the  annoyance  of 
the  burly  driver  who  by  pulling  his  nag  back 
on  his  haunches  averted  the  catastrophe, 
ended  in  a  smile. 

No  one  could  help  smiling  with  Bill  to-day, 
so  joyfully  did  his  eyes  sparkle,  so  glad  were 
his  footsteps,  hurrying  now,  oblivious  of  the 
journey  overpast. 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  these  humble 
equipages,  also  going  fair-ward,  he  beheld 
one  of  quite  a  different  character.  It  was  a 
basket  phaeton  drawn  by  a  high-stepping 
little  bay,  with  much-veined,  glossy  neck,  and 
red  nostrils  quivering.  Seated  in  the  phaeton 
was  a  young  lady,  the  like  of  whom  Bill  had 
never  seen.  Her  attitude  was  one  of  boyish 
grace,  for  her  back  was  bent  in  the  posture 
of  a  child  who  does  not  care  how  it  looks,  and 
therefore  looks  its  best.  Her  chin  had  an 
upward  curve,  and  from  under  the  broad 
Panama  hat  she  had  put  on  anyhow,  the 
sunny  ripples  of  her  hair  escaped  rebelliously. 
She  held  the  reins  loosely  in  her  ungloved 
hand,  and  was  moved  neither  by  the  clatter 
'75 


"Son" 

about  her  nor  by  the  angry  snorting  of  her 
horse  at  being  in  the  midst  of  it. 

Bill,  staring  in  mute  admiration,  was  para 
lyzed  when  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  squarely 
on  his.  They  were  gray,  with  brown  rims, 
and  little  brown  flecks  in  them,  and  for  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  look  away.  Suddenly 
the  vision  reined  in,  reached  over,  and  tapped 
his  shoulder  with  the  silver  butt  of  her  whip. 

"  Tag !  "  she  said. 

Bill  saw  stars.  That  this  beautiful  lady, 
removed  from  him  by  worlds  and  worlds  of 
space,  should  come  down  out  of  the  other 
and  actually  speak  to  him,  was  inexplicable. 

"  Don't  you  know  it's  '  tag  day '  ?  "  contin 
ued  the  goddess,  in  a  tone  of  easy  familiarity 
that  added  momently  to  his  embarrassment. 

Bill  looked  down  into  the  dust  at  his  feet 
and  made  no  reply. 

"  Give  me  some  money,  please  !  " 

It  was  an  order,  —  peremptory,  brooking 

no  denial.     Bill  was   observing   the    ground 

attentively,  else  he  would  have  seen  that  the 

lady  was  looking  at  him  very  pleasantly  out 

176 


Bill 

of  her  hazel  eyes  as  she  gave  it.  He  had 
never  heard  of  the  time-honored  custom  by 
virtue  of  which  the  petted  daughter  of  a  Maine 
Senator  may  with  propriety  demand  of  even 
a  barefoot  boy  a  donation  for  her  favorite 
charity.  But  she  thought  he  had. 

"  Something  for  the  hospital,"  she  repeated, 
waiting. 

"  If  he  had  only  had  five  cents !  One  of 
those  nickels  in  the  stocking  !  That  much  he 
could  have  spared.  Would  the  lady  be  very 
angry  at  having  to  make  change  ?  He  wanted 
to  explain,  but  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 
So  he  put  his  hand  deep  into  his  pocket,  drew 
out  his  dollar,  and  coming  close  to  the  wheel, 
gave  it  over.  She  hesitated  in  genuine  sur 
prise,  and  then  taking  it,  said  warmly: 

"  What !  A  whole  dollar  !  What  a  generous 
little  boy  you  are  !  I'll  tell  all  the  sick  chil 
dren  in  the  ward  about  you  !  " 

Bill  looked  up  as  a  little  dog  will  when  it 
hears  tones  of  praise,  and  took  in  no  word  of 
what  was  being  said, 

"  What  a  beautiful  boy  !  "  the  girl  thought, 
177 


"Son" 

letting  her  glance  travel  from  the  dark  eyes 
with  their  curled  lashes  to  the  brown, 
bared  throat,  the  square  shoulders,  the  erect 
poise,  in  keen  appreciation  of  the  strong 
young  grace  of  little  Bill.  "  Good-bye  !  "  she 
called,  looking  back  prettily  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  drove  off,  for  she  was  unconscious 
mistress  of  many  arts. 

Bill  stood  quiet,  expecting  her  to  come 
back  with  his  change.  Even  when  she  had 
dwindled  to  a  pin-point  he  thought  this  would 
turn,  becoming  larger  and  larger,  until  it  was 
once  more  at  his  side,  bending  over  him, — 
sorry  for  having  teased  him.  Another  driver 
shouted  to  him  to  get  out  of  the  way.  This 
time  Bill  did  not  laugh,  but  moved  a  little,  — 
not  too  far  for  her  to  see.  She  was  keeping 
him  too  long.  He  could  take  a  joke,  —  but 
not  if  it  was  carried  too  far  !  Not  when  it  in 
volved  his  dollar,  that  he  had  earned  himself, 
every  penny,  and  was  going  to  spend  at  the 
fair. 

Still  she  did  not  come. 

Bill  thought  he  remembered  something  — 
178 


Bill 

something  about  sick  children  in  a  hospital. 
Yes,  that  was  it.  He  ought  to  have  told  her 
about  his  mother's  dress.  He  choked.  She 
was  so  pretty,  —  she  would  have  understood 
that.  She  would  not  have  wanted  him  to 
give  the  money  for  his  mother's  dress  to 
sick  children  in  any  hospital.  But  he  had 
not  told  her.  And  she  had  not  come  back. 
She  had  gone.  She  did  not  know  that  his 
mother  never  went  anywhere.  She  would 
never  know  it.  Never,  not  even  when 
the  fair  was  over,  and  the  years  had 
gone  on,  and  he  was  an  old,  old  man. 
Never ! 

Bill's  chest  heaved,  over  and  over,  and  he 
thought  he  should  die  of  the  sobs  that  were 
inside.  But  not  a  whimper,  —  not  one, 
that  could  direct  at  his  misery  even  one 
glance,  curious  or  sympathetic,  from  all  their 
eyes.  If  they  would  only  go,  —  go  to  their 
Elliston  Fair,  and  leave  him  alone !  The 
crowd,  for  which  he  had  longed  so  ardently, 
was  most  hateful  to  him  of  all  things  on 
earth. 

179 


"Son" 

"  She  never  gits  nowhar,"  he  muttered,  as 
he  turned  slowly  and  set  his  face  toward 
home. 

Son's  restlessness  had  grown  on  him  as  the 
morning  wore  on.  Still  thinking  of  his  friend, 
he  finally  decided  to  read,  and  came  upon 
the  piazza  seeking  his  book.  Father  was 
sitting  there,  and  Mother  was  at  the  tele 
phone  just  inside  the  door. 

"  Senator  Hillhouse  wants  us  to  come  over 
to  lunch,"  she  said,  coming  out.  "  Marjorie 
says  there's  a  fair  to-day,  and  she  thinks  it 
would  be  fine  to  go  for  a  few  minutes.  Why, 
Son,  what  on  earth  —  " 

In  the  wildest  excitement  he  had  thrown 
his  arms  around  her,  and  was  pleading : 

"  Oh,  Mother,  take  me  with  you  !  Ask  her 
if  I  can  come  too  !  " 

Father  and  Mother  exchanged  surprised 
glances.  Son  was  such  a  decorous  little  boy, 
and  never  minded  being  left  out  of  any 
excursions,  so  many  things  had  he  always 
planned  to  do. 

1 80 


Bill 

"  I  might  ask,"  Mother  said  doubtfully. 
"  Marjorie  wouldn't  mind.  There's  no  one 
else  coming." 

"  Oh,  take  him  along,"  said  Father.  "  No 
one'll  know  that  he's  there  !  " 

Thus  it  came  about  that  a  belated  surrey 
carrying  four  passengers  and  following  the 
line  of  travel  in  the  direction  of  Elliston  had 
the  road  all  to  itself.  Son  sat  on  the  front 
seat  next  the  driver,  and  said  not  a  word. 
In  what  booth  should  they  find  him?  Gaz 
ing  at  what  wonder?  Buying  what  rich  gifts? 

"  There's  Marjorie  now,"  cried  Mother, 
"  coming  to  meet  us." 

"  Hello  !  "  cried  the  girl,  as  the  two  car 
riages  came  to  a  stop.  "  I've  been  on  the 
road  for  hours.  Started  early  to  breakfast 
with  a  friend  of  mine  down  the  road,  and 
telephoned  from  there.  I  thought  I'd  drive 
out  this  way  and  escort  you  back." 

They  talked  a  few  moments,  and  then  the 
girl  looked  at  Son. 

"Want  to  get  in  with  me?"  she  said 
invitingly. 

181 


"Son" 

"  He'd  love  to,"  responded  Mother  quickly. 
And  Father  admonished  her  under  his  breath. 

"  Don't  put  words  into  his  mouth !  Let 
him  answer  for  himself." 

Son,  willing  to  oblige,  though  his  thoughts 
were  elsewhere,  clambered  out  of  his  own 
carriage  and  into  the  basket  trap.  He  was 
glad  in  a  few  moments  that  he  had  come,  so 
easy  was  it  for  his  hostess  to  talk  to  boys. 
They  were  deep  in  conversation,  when  Son 
suddenly  turned  white  and  gripped  her  arm. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked  in  alarm. 

"  It's  Bill !  "  cried  Son.  "And  he's  coming 
back  !  Oh,  stop,  and  let  me  speak  to  him !  " 

Bill,  shuffling  along,  shoulders  bent,  head 
drooping,  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing. 

"  Bill !  "  shouted  Son. 

Then  Bill  looked  up. 

"  It's  my  boy,"  said  the  girl  wonderingly. 
"The  boy  that  gave  me  a  dollar  for  the 
hospital." 

Son  stopped  in  the  act  of  getting  out. 

"Bill  gave  you  his  dollar?"  he  cried,  in 
credulous.     "  His  dollar  that  he  earned?" 
182 


Bill 

Bill,  looking  up,  had  seen  her  whom  he  had 
thought  never  to  behold  again,  —  seen  her 
with  his  own  familiar  friend  at  her  side,  wav 
ing  to  him.  It  was  too  much.  He  put  both 
fists  into  his  eyes,  and  sobbed  as  though  his 
heart  would  break. 

An  hour  later,  between  Son  and  Marjorie, 
tightly  holding  a  hand  of  each,  he  was  enter 
ing  his  land  of  promise. 

Father  and  Mother  walked  behind. 

"  Pity  he  has  no  companions,"  said  Father. 

Mother  did  not  smile.  She  was  watching 
the  two  boys,  shoulder  pressing  shoulder* 
heads  close  together,  while  their  hearts  beat 
high  in  friendship  and  anticipation. 


183 


THE   OUTLAW 


THE    OUTLAW 


"  T  T'S  a  two-mile  carry,"  said  Nang. 

A  "  What  of  it?  "  wondered  Son.  He  had 
spent  two  days  in  fishing  the  silent  streams 
and  dreaming  the  hours  away;  the  blood 
coursed  through  his  veins  and  glowed  in  his 
cheeks,  adding  to  the  exhilaration  he  could 
not  help  feeling  at  having  been  chosen  by 
Father  to  be  his  companion  on  this  magical 
trip.  He  was  only  eight,  and  he  had  never 
been  in  the  woods  before. 

The  men  started  in  doggedly,  measuring 
the  stuff  with  practised  eye,  and  knowing  to 
the  fraction  of  a  pound  how  much  each  one 
could  lug. 

Son  picked  out  a  little  load  for  himself  and 
shouldered  it  in  silence,  as  they  did.  He  had 
not  gone  far  before  some  one  came  up  from 
behind  and  deliberately  took  it  away  from 
him. 

187 


"Son" 

It  was  Nang,  the  guide. 

Son  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  so 
humiliated  did  he  feel. 

"  Here's  just  the  place  left  for  the  tea-pot 
and  the  camera,"  said  Nang's  voice.  "  Made 
for  it."  He  swung  the  articles  in  question 
onto  the  top  of  his  pile.  "  Now  you  run 
along,"  he  ordered.  "  If  you  get  yourself 
over  there,  you'll  be  doing  enough." 

Struggling  to  hide  his  resentment,  Son  felt 
two  sharp,  bright  eyes  upon  him. 

"  There's  a  beautiful  walk  near  here,"  said 
Nang.  "You'd  have  time  to  take  it  while 
we're  makin'  the  first  two  mile.  It's  called 
the  horseback." 

"  Good  !  "  said  Father,  who  had  overheard. 
And  after  obtaining  full  directions  they 
started  off  together.  A  trail  brought  them 
to  a  level  ridge,  along  which  Son  ran,  his 
hand  warm  in  Father's,  over  a  path  pine- 
carpeted  and  elastic  with  the  soft  ruin  of  last 
year's  leaves,  the  trees  straight  and  still  above 
him  like  soldiers  on  parade,  all  things  hushed 
and  green  far  nearer  than  sun  or  sky,  of 
188 


The  Outlaw 

which  he  was  conscious  a  great  way  off. 
When,  clinging  to  the  bushes,  he  ventured 
to  look  down,  he  saw  a  running  stream  so 
far  below  him  that  he  could  not  hear  the 
sound  of  it,  and  at  intervals  the  shrubbery 
ceased  abruptly,  wiped  out  by  the  mighty 
logs  that  had  gone  thundering  down  the  slide 
during  the  Winter.  Son  stood  awed  before 
these  great  skidways,  where  stalwart  young 
saplings  had  been  uprooted,  and  all  the  more 
tender  growth  lay  buried  under  powdered 
earth  and  stones. 

"  I  suppose  the  big  trees  were  angry,"  he 
thought  with  a  smile,  "  at  being  chopped 
down  like  that,  so  they  did  not  care  what 
they  killed  after  they  had  been  pushed  over 
the  side." 

The  silence  was  so  deep,  as  he  stood  there, 
that,  had  not  his  eyes  borne  witness,  he  would 
not  have  believed  it  had  ever  been  broken. 
He  put  his  hand  once  more  in  Father's,  drawn 
to  the  one  with  whom  he  was  alone  in  this 
wonderful  and  lonely  place. 

What  was  that  ? 

189 


"Son" 

His  heart  stood  still,  for  up  from  the  depths 
had  come  a  startling  sound. 

They  were  not  alone,  they  two.  Somewhere 
down  there  another  heart  was  beating —  beat 
ing  high  with  a  great  fear.  Something  was 
conscious  of  their  presence  —  something  big. 
They  waited,  moving  not  so  much  as  a  finger, 
for  a  second  of  surcharged  silence.  Then  a 
great  body,  heedless  from  terror,  plunged 
splashing  into  the  stream,  and  annihilating 
with  heavy  foot  whatever  growing  thing  hin 
dered  it  in  its  mad  flight,  crashed  into  the 
thick  forest  on  the  other  side. 

Son  had  caught  no  more  than  a  glimpse  of 
two  majestic  antlers,  with  such  lightning  ra 
pidity  had  the  moose  vanished.  Still  he 
dared  not  speak,  for  somewhere  among  the 
trees  it  might  be  in  hiding,  with  fixed  eyes 
burning  red,  and  breathing  hard.  Son  felt 
so  sorry  for  it  that  in  its  wild  home  it 
should  be  thus  frightened  by  two  other 
live  creatures  who,  without  guns,  were 
but  delighting  harmlessly  in  this  spot  of 
mystery. 

190 


The  Outlaw 

"  Come  back !  "  he  whispered  prayerfully. 
"  I  do  want  to  see  you  so !  I'm  just  a 
boy,  you  know,  not  quarter  as  big  as 
you !  " 

He  was  answered  only  by  a  little  breeze 
that  swayed  lightly  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

"  He's  gone  !  "  Father  sighed  regretfully. 

And  Son  sent  after  him  a  scarcely  breathed 
"  Good-bye !  " 

They  went  on,  and  Son  almost  forgot  the 
moose.  For  the  other  side  of  the  ridge,  un 
suitable  for  logging  by  reason  of  its  gentler 
slope,  was  thick  with  trees,  and  the  moss  that 
clung  to  their  roots  was  more  silvery  than  the 
stems  of  birch  trees,  or  the  wrong  side  of 
little  leaves  in  Spring.  The  two  clambered 
down,  their  feet  buried  in  velvet,  and  reached 
the  wide  dells  at  the  foot,  from  which  the 
trees  stood  back  because  they  had  wished  to 
leave  the  moss  unbroken  and  undisturbed. 
There  it  ran  riot,  clinging  to  every  little  rise, 
marking  out  every  miniature  valley.  Son 
threw  himself  down  in  it  and  buried  his  face, 
but  so  soft  it  was  that  it  seemed  to  melt  away 
191 


"Son" 

beneath  his  clinging  cheek  and  fingers.  When 
he  got  up,  no  imprint  marked  the  place  where 
he  had  flung  his  weight. 

"  I  can't  leave  it !  "  he  cried  out.  "  Oh,  do 
let's  stay  here  and  sleep  to-night !  " 

Father  laughed,  looked  at  his  watch,  and 
said  they  must  be  turning  back. 

Then  Son  remembered  the  guides.  While 
he  had  revelled  in  this  paradise,  they  had 
been  toiling ;  —  Nang  had  been  doing  his 
work. 

"  I  was  so  cross,"  he  repented.  "  And  if 
he'd  let  me  do  as  I  liked,  I'd  never  have  seen 
the  moose." 

With  gratitude  warm  in  his  heart  he  hur 
ried,  and  as  Father  took  long  steps  they  re 
joined  the  two  guides  just  at  the  completion 
of  the  third  trip.  All  the  load  was  lying  at 
the  beginning  of  the  last  half-mile  stretch, 
which  Nang  called  the  "  hayth."  Son,  look 
ing  at  the  ungainly  bags  and  bundles  spread 
out  among  the  stumps  of  trees,  began  to  real 
ize  what  a  two-mile  carry  meant  Theirs  had 
not  seemed  much  of  an  outfit  to  him  before, 
192 


The  Outlaw 

but  now  he  longed  to  leave  it  by  the  wayside 
and  do  without  tents  and  blankets,  since  these 
things  must  be  brought  through  the  wilder 
ness  piled  on  the  braced  shoulders  of  men. 
The  "  hayth "  was  a  nightmare,  for  the  en 
tangling  bushes  which  hampered  the  men's 
feet  came  up  waist  high  on  Son.  Also  the 
sun  was  hot.  He  went  on,  setting  his  teeth. 
All  at  once  Nang,  who  was  just  in  front  of 
him,  stopped  and  let  his  load  slide  to  the 
ground. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Son  anx 
iously.  "Are  you  sick?" 

He  received  no  reply.  In  another  instant 
he  was  in  the  guide's  arms,  —  then  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  He  treats  me  as  if  I  were  a  gunny-sack  !  " 
thought  Son.  Still  he  did  not  protest,  nor 
was  he  inwardly  very  angry,  for  he  remem 
bered  who  had  been  the  cause  of  that  walk 
that  he  could  never  forget  He  knew  that 
through  the  coming  months  the  thought  of  it 
would  refresh  him  like  a  breath  of  September 
air.  His  little  life  was  barren  still  of  memo- 
193 


"Son" 

ries,  —  greatest  of  all  compensations  for  the 
piling  up  of  years. 

Nang  walked  on  with  quick,  staccato  steps ; 
he  never  looked  back  to  see  who  had  assumed 
his  discarded  burden. 

"  How  did  he  know,"  pondered  Son,  very 
sleepy  and  comfortable,  "that  I  was  tired? 
He  couldn't  see  me  when  he  was  in  front." 

Without  words,  something  warm  stole  from 
his  heart  to  that  of  the  tense  little  guide  under 
him.  "  He  didn't  see  me,"  was  his  thought, 
"  but  he  knew  just  the  same." 

"  How  tired  you  must  be  !  "  he  said  finally. 

"  Tain't  the  first  time,"  Nang  answered 
shortly. 

No  one  had  ever  met  Son's  advances  after 
this  manner  before.  Yet  he  did  not  shrink 
The  fact  was  that  he  understood.  "  It's  just 
his  way,"  he  explained  to  himself. 

"Is  'Nang'  your  real  name?"  he  asked. 

"  Leander,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  folks  down 
where  I  live  ain't  much  given  to  poetry,  so 
I'm  Nang." 

When  at  length  the  shimmering  lake  was 
194 


The  Outlaw 

before  them,  Nang  left  Son   sitting   in   the 
shadow  of  a  rock,  and  went  back  for  a  canoe. 

Son  listened  to  the  lap  of  the  wavelets,  and 
watched  the  red  sun  drawing  mercifully  down 
wards,  wondering  how  long  it  would  take  to 
disappear  behind  that  black  cloud  with  hard 
bright  edges.  He  did  not  feel  lonely,  for 
every  little  while  he  would  discern  a  figure 
laboring  toward  him  from  far  away  over  the 
heath,  and  no  one  failed  to  find  time  for  a 
cheerful  word  to  him  before  turning  back. 

There  followed  such  a  beautiful  night,  with 
soft  breeze  flapping  the  tents,  and  a  delicious 
odor  of  pine  in  his  nostrils,  that  Son  would 
have  forgotten  all  about  the  afternoon's  strain 
had  it  not  been  for  his  friend's  face  next 
morning. 

There  are  no  gradations  in  the  words. 
Toil  —  taxing  every  nerve  and  muscle, — 
rest  —  perfect  and  complete.  But  Nang 
managed  to  miss  that  part  of  it.  For  the 
hard  years  were  telling,  and  it  was  the  spirit 
alone  that  gave  to  the  worn  frame  still  the 
quality  of  whalebone. 
195 


"Son" 

"  Didn't  you  sleep?  "  asked  Son,  while  the 
coffee  was  making. 

"  No,"  said  Nang.  "  I  had  the  rheumatism 
bad  last  night.  But  /  heard  something  that 
you  didn't !  " 

"Oh,  what?"  cried  Son. 

"  A  deer  in  the  bushes,"  said  Nang. 

And  it  seemed  to  Son  that  this  sound, 
which  could  hold  for  him  no  element  of  sur 
prise,  made  up  to  Nang  for  all  those  hours  of 
painful  wakefulness. 

Son  was  frightfully  hungry.  He  ate  for 
his  breakfast  the  most  extraordinary  things, 
—  last  night's  beans  warmed  over,  flap-jacks 
made  with  Aunt  Jemima's  flour,  coffee,  and 
soda-biscuit.  All  were  alike  good,  and  gave 
him  a  warm,  comfortable  feeling  inside.  After 
breakfast  they  broke  camp,  and  in  an  hour, 
with  loaded  canoes,  were  ready  to  paddle 
silently  away. 

That  evening  Father  lingered  late  on  the 

stream)  absorbed    in  his  fishing,   and  Nang, 

being  in  his  pay,  said  nothing,  only  keeping 

his  eyes  on  the  fine  line  of  gold  that  marked 

196 


The  Outlaw 

the  place  where  the  sun  had  been.  Now  he 
was  making  bread,  while  the  others  wandered 
up  and  down  aimlessly  in  the  darkness. 

"Where  are  the  tent  pegs,  Nang?"  said 
Father. 

"  Over  there,"  was  the  answer,  with  a  quick 
nod  toward  the  largest  gunny-sack.  "  They're 
right  at  the  top."  He  directed  Father's  fum 
bling  hands. 

"  Say,  have  you  got  the  jack-knife  ?  "  asked 
the  second  guide,  peering  helplessly. 

"  It's  sticking  in  that  tree  where  you  left 
it." 

"What  shall  I  do  with  the  frying-pan?" 
questioned  Son,  who  had  run  up,  wishing  to 
be  useful. 

"  Whatever  you  like,"  replied  Nang  irri 
tably. 

Son  drew  back  and  stood  still  as  a  mouse, 
resolved  to  ask  no  more  pointless  questions. 

In  this  scene  of  confusion,  which  might  so 

easily  have  been  avoided  by  the  use  of  a  little 

forethought,  Nang  was  the  moving  spirit  of 

order.      Son    watched    in    the    firelight   his 

•    197 


"Son" 

strange  and  weazened  face  in  which  the  sharp 
eyes  moved  restlessly  like  those  of  some  alert 
little  animal.  When  Nang  looked  about  for 
the  tin  of  baking  powder,  Son  shoved  it  under 
his  hand.  Nang's  mouth  remained  set  and 
stern ;  only  the  eyes  smiled. 

"  Good  boy  ! "  he  said  shortly. 

And  Son  felt  that  even  at  eight  years  old 
one  could  be  helpful  in  the  woods.  They 
had  done  their  travelling  in  the  morning,  had 
chosen  a  camping  ground,  and  dumping  the 
stuff  on  the  bank  had  started  out  with  light 
canoes.  Son  had  not  fished  that  afternoon, 
though  he  liked  to  hold  in  his  hands  his  own 
feather-weight  rod.  It  had  taken  all  his  time 
to  watch  the  reflections  of  overhanging  maples 
in  the  stream  ahead,  —  trees  far  more  distinct 
than  the  real  ones  on  the  banks,  whose  leaves 
broke  into  red  and  yellow  flutterings  when 
reached  by  the  ever  widening  circles  from  the 
canoes.  Son  had  never  thought  of  fish  as 
creatures  to  be  envied,  but  to-day  he  would 
not  have  minded  changing  places  with  one  of 
the  big  fellows  that  he  knew  were  lying  with 
198 


The  Outlaw 

unwinking  eyes  and  not  so  much  as  a  flip  of 
tail  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  stream.  Always 
supposing,  that  is,  that  he  were  endowed 
with  their  astuteness,  to  be  lured  from  his 
pebbly  fastnesses  neither  by  Parmachene 
Belle  nor  Brown  Hackle,  skimmed  they  never 
so  enticingly  over  the  smooth  surface  of  the 
water.  All  wood  creatures  were  wary. 

Just  then  there  was  a  sharp  crackle;  the 
smouldering  logs  burst  into  flame.  Son 
looked  up  and  saw  the  face  of  their  guide. 
All  wood  creatures,  —  including  Nang. 

The  days  went  on,  and  Son's  impression  of 
Nang  did  not  change.  Though  there  was 
much  about  him  that  was  puzzling,  he  began 
to  feel  toward  the  crotchety  little  man  a  loy 
alty  which  seemed  to  have  been  part  of  his 
life  for  years.  He  had  succumbed  to  the 
power  of  the  woods  to  make  intimacies,  for  a 
day  of  companionship  in  the  open  is  worth  a 
twelvemonth  of  intercourse  in  cities. 

On  Grand  Lake  he  had  spent  a  wondrous 
night  encamped  on  the  beach,  where  the  big 
moon  shone  right  in  on  his  bed  through  the 
199 


"Son" 

open  tent-flap,  and  where  all  the  sands  glowed 
rosy  in  the  early  morning;  but  the  other 
sheets  of  water,  often  wind-swept,  —  Dobsis, 
Gasabeus,  and  Nikataus,  —  depressed  him. 
So  much  the  more  he  loved  the  rivers.  It  filled 
him  with  keenest  pleasure  to  watch  Nang 
shooting  rapids,  standing  all  alone  in  his 
canoe,  quick  in  thought  and  action,  absolute 
master  of  the  frail  thing  and  knowing  exactly 
how  much  it  would  do.  Son  felt  unbounded 
admiration  for  the  skill  which  could  turn  the 
force  of  the  current  so  easily  to  its  own  uses. 

Sometimes  he  caught  an  expression  on  his 
friend's  face  that  troubled  him.  It  would 
come  at  unlocked  for  moments,  as  when 
Nang  was  steering  a  loaded  canoe  across  a 
breezy  lake,  and  his  sharp  eyes,  suddenly 
fixed,  would  try  to  pierce  the  distant  shore, 
or  at  night  in  camp,  when  they  were  all  sitting 
about,  relaxed  and  comfortable,  and  the  little 
man's  frame  would  unexpectedly  draw  itself 
together  with  a  snap. 

One  evening  they  made  camp  early,  after 
an  exquisite  day  on  sharply  winding  rivers,  and 
200 


The  Outlaw 

the  warmth  was  that  of  August.  Even  mos 
quitoes,  whose  existence  they  had  forgotten, 
came  to  life  again  in  this  still  place,  and  Son 
had  to  sit  close  to  the  smoke  of  the  men's 
pipes  to  escape  them. 

There  was  much  talk  after  supper,  and  the 
second  guide  astonished  Son  beyond  meas 
ure  by  the  ease  of  his  answers  to  mathemati 
cal  puzzles  propounded  by  Father.  Son 
disapproved  of  Father's  habit  of  fastening 
with  avidity  upon  these  problems,  and  writing 
them  down  in  a  little  book  for  future  trial 
upon  man,  woman,  and  child.  There  was  one 
about  Arabs  in  a  desert  who  fed  upon  cheeses, 
which  Son  particularly  disliked,  —  and  he  sat 
by  pityingly  when  Father  began  to  tell  it  to 
this  guide  who  had  spent  his  life  catching 
grasshoppers  and  putting  them  into  a  bottle 
as  bait  for  bass,  and  who  hardly  appeared  to 
listen.  Then  out  came  the  correct  answer  in 
a  second.  And  the  guide  did  not  seem  to 
think  he  had  done  anything  at  all !  Son 
ever  after  regarded  him  with  vast  respect. 

The  talk   began   to   turn  upon  trials  and 

201 


"Son" 

court-room  scenes.  Nang,  who  had  taken  no 
part  in  the  puzzles,  became  quickly  attentive, 
and  asked  many  questions  as  to  New  York 
procedure. 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  law?  "  quizzed 
Father  suddenly.  He  was  smoking  a  good 
cigar,  and  was  vastly  pleased  with  his  audi 
ence.  "Ever  studied  it?" 

Son  did  not  stop  to  hear  Nang's  answer  to 
this  question.  He  was  slightly  bored  by  the 
conversation,  and,  besides,  he  thought  he  had 
heard  a  sound  down  by  the  river.  If  only  he 
could  see  a  moose  !  He  made  his  way  to  the 
bank  and  stood  for  a  moment  absorbed  in 
the  beauty  of  this  second  sky  at  his  feet,  no 
longer  blue  as  in  prosaic  daylight,  but  varie 
gated  with  greens,  yellows,  and  violets  of  the 
most  delicate  shades.  All  was  still.  The 
broken  stalks  alone,  plentifully  sprinkled 
through  the  opalescent  water  and  ruthlessly 
trodden  down,  told  a  story  of  past  ecstatic 
wallowings. 

Son  turned  and  started  back  to  camp,  as 
he  thought.  He  could  not  see  the  fire,  but  it 
.202 


The  Outlaw 

was  over  there,  —  just  behind  that  little  hill. 
Strange  that  it  took  so  long  to  get  to  it !  Son 
could  hear  talking  —  and  the  second  guide's, 
loud  laugh.  He  began  to  hurry.  Then  he 
stopped  short.  There  were  no  voices  any 
more.  What  was  that?  Only  the  twitter  of 
a  bird  far  away,  singing  a  little  sunset  song. 

Son's  heart  beat  fast.  He  looked  up  at  the 
silent  trees,  bathed  in  that  great  light  that 
comes  for  a  moment  between  day  and  dark 
ness.  How  splendid  they  were,  and  how 
cruel !  He  began  to  run  from  one  to  another. 
Each  group  was  exactly  similar  to  the  one 
before.  Now  they  were  gathering  about  him, 
—  beginning  to  press  upon  him,  their  out 
stretched  arms  closing  him  in,  —  always  in 
terrible,  inexorable  silence.  Low  bushes 
clambered  up  and  scratched  his  face,  but  he 
paid  no  attention  to  them.  He  could  not 
breathe.  Frantic,  he  threw  his  weight  against 
a  young  pine,  and  began  to  beat  the  slender 
trunk  with  his  closed  fists.  It  bent  gracefully, 
ever  so  little,  and  as  soon  as  the  slight  pres 
sure  was  relaxed,  it  came  back  and  stood 
203 


"Son" 

utterly  still,  as  if  in  scorn  of  this  poor  futile 
human  energy.  Son  did  not  struggle  any 
more.  There  was  no  fight  left  in  him.  He 
stood  quite  as  motionless  as  the  big  trees, 
and  there  was  a  look  on  his  face  in  the  wan 
ing  light  that  did  not  belong  to  that  of  a 
child. 

It  was  not  quite  dark  when  Nang  found 
him.  Son  heard  something  coming,  —  heard 
a  twig  or  two  snap,  —  but  he  did  not  shout, 
so  great  was  his  dread  of  disappointment. 
The  wrinkled  face,  whose  outlines  his  strain 
ing  eyes  could  just  make  out  coming  between 
the  tree  trunks,  seemed  to  him  the  most  beau 
tiful  in  the  world.  It  was  a  pity  that  those 
who  knew  Nang  could  not  see  it,  for  it 
had  an  expression  wholly  unfamiliar  to 
them. 

"  Hello  !  "  he  said. 

Son  shuddered,  and  a  violent  trembling 
seized  his  whole  body.  He  began  to  cry. 
"  I  can't  help  it !  "  he  said,  ashamed,  between 
sobs. 

Nang  moved  a  step  nearer. 
204 


The  Outlaw 

"It's  nothin'  to  feel  bad  over,"  he  said 
quietly.  "Any  man  would  do  the  same. 
You've  had  a  terrible  experience,  —  bein'  lost 
in  the  woods." 

Son  felt  the  electric  thrill  of  this  strange 
little  man's  sympathy,  and  it  steadied  his 
over-wrought  nerves. 

"  They  were  so  unkind !  "  he  whispered, 
half  to  himself,  but  in  entire  confidence  that 
Nang  would  understand  him.  He  was  not 
disappointed. 

"  They  would  be,"  Nang  said,  looking  up 
at  the  shadowy  trunks  —  "  to  you" 

"Why  to  me?"  said  Son. 

"  Because  you've  only  come  to  them  for 
your  amusement,"  Nang  answered  slowly, 
"  and  they're  not  your  friends." 

"  I  know  they're  yours,"  Son  said.  "  Oh, 
Nang !  tell  me  what  made  them  be? " 

Nang  paused  before  he  answered. 

"  I've  lived  with  'em  and  worked  with  'em 

and  learned   'em  through  and  through,"  he 

said  at  last  solemnly.     "  I  could  walk  right 

across   the   state   through   them  to-morrow, 

205 


"Son" 

and  come  out  anywhere  I  wanted  to  within 
ten  miles." 

"  Cut  right  through  the  woods,  without 
paths  ?  "  asked  Son. 

"Right  through,  —  by  the  sun." 

"  Could  you  go  to-night?  "  Son  continued. 

Nang  shook  his  head. 

"  Better  not,"  he  said.  "  When  night  comes, 
a  woodsman  lays  down  where  he  is  and 
waits  for  morning." 

His  next  words  were  low  and  dreamy. 

"  They'll  do  more  for  a  man  than  that,"  he 
almost  whispered.  "  They'll  swallow  him  up 
when  there's  need." 

Son  felt  a  little  chill  down  his  spine,  so 
queerly  gleamed  Nang's  eyes  in  the  twilight. 

"  Let's  go  back  to  the  fire,"  he  said. 

Father  and  the  second  guide  were  still 
smoking  and  talking  about  cheeses  when 
they  came  up. 

"  Hello !  "  the  latter  greeted  their  arrival. 
"  You  were  gone  quite  a  spell.  Nang  thought 
you  might  'a'  got  lost." 

Son  could  not  speak  of  what  he  experi- 
206 


The  Outlaw 

enced.  He  looked  at  Nang,  who  likewise 
kept  silence.  Idle  for  once,  the  latter  sat 
down  on  a  log,  chin  on  hands,  and  appeared 
lost  in  thought. 

His  preoccupation  stopped  the  easy  flow 
of  talk.  Son,  watching  him,  longed  to  pene 
trate  still  further  than  he  had  done  into  the 
mystery  of  his  spirit. 

"  Oh,  Nang !  "  he  cried  impulsively,  "  tell 
me  what  you're  thinking  about." 

The  little  man  looked  up,  startled.  Then 
he  smiled  sourly.  "  My  thoughts  wasn't 
any  too  pleasant,"  he  said,  and  his  look 
was  more  bitter  than  the  smile  it  blotted 
out. 

Again  Son  felt  the  little  chill,  and  it  com 
municated  itself  to  the  others. 

"  We're  all  friends  here,"  said  Father,  look 
ing  around.  It  was  as  though  he  expected 
momentous  disclosures. 

"  I  was  talkin'  to  him"  Nang  began,  nod 
ding  in  Son's  direction,  "  about  knowin'  the 
woods. 

"  Up  in  this  country,"  he  went  on,  "  every 
207 


"Son" 

boy  knows  'em,  and  every  man  that  is  a 
man'll  fight  ter  use  'em  as  he  sees  fit." 

Nang's  meagre  voice  had-  gained  in  depth 
and  volume,  as  he  spoke,  making  his  last 
words  sound  peculiarly  significant  • 

"  Ten  years  ago,"  he  resumed  after  a  pause, 
"the  young  men  of  Machias  met  together  to 
ask  a  few  pertinent  questions.  This  was  one : 
'  By  what  right  do  a  lot  of  judges  sittin'  in 
a  stuffy  court  house  dictate  to  us  what  we 
shall  do  when  we're  out  in  the  woods?'  " 

His  eyes  were  blazing  now,  and  Son  was 
frightened  by  the  flash  of  fanatical  hatred 
that  distorted  his  features,  breaking  down  all 
barriers  of  reserve. 

"  Them  as  sits  down  every  day  to  their  fat 
dinners,"  he  cried,  his  voice  no  longer  deep, 
but  cracked  and  shrill,  —  "  shall  they  dare  to 
forbid  us  to  kill  for  food  after  we've  walked 
fifty  mile  through  the  wilderness?" 

Father  was  listening  attentively,  surprised 

at  the  facility  of  expression,   the  command 

not  only  of  words  but  of  the  thousand  tricks 

of  voice   and   manner  that  mark  familiarity 

208 


The  Outlaw 

with  the  court  room,  which  came  so  easily 
from  this  untutored  woodsman. 

"  Are  they  goiri  ter  stop  us  from  catchin' 
trout  for  our  supper,"  Nang  demanded, — 
"because  it  happens  to  be  the  first  of  May 
by  their  calendar?  —  That  was  a  second  ques 
tion  the  young  men  asked.  That's  their  way 
of  tellin'  the  time  of  year.  But  we  tell  it  a 
different  way.  We  tell  it  by  freezin'  in  winter 
and  sweatin'  in  summer.  When  the  sun  sets 
one  night,  the  law  says,  '  Fish  if  you  like ! ' 
And  when  the  sun  rises  next  mornin'  it  says, 
'  Fish  if  you  dare  ! '  There  they  sit,  and  make 
it,  and  write  it  down  in  books." 

The  excitement  died  out  of  his  face,  and 
he  continued  more  quietly,  — 

"  The  young  men  of  Machias  decides  that 
there's  only  one  answer  to  such  questions. 
So  they  builds  a  fort  of  logs  up  the  river,  and 
defies,  not  so  much  the  judges,"  —  his  voice 
lowered  itself,  —  "  but  the  man  who  can  give 
the  judges  cards  and  spades  for  meanness,  — 
the  feller  who  takes  their  pay  and  comes 
sneakin'  through  the  woods  to  track  us  down." 
209 


"Son" 

The  fire  flared  up;  all  waited  breathless 
for  Nang  to  go  on. 

"  It  was  all  fight  and  no  quarter  fer  game- 
wardens  if  they  came,"  said  Nang.  "  But 
they  didn't  come" 

"  Didn't  they  ever?"  asked  Son. 

Nang  shook  his  head,  grimly  reminiscent. 

"  Not  there,"  he  said.  "  There  was  too 
many  of  us.  They  waited  till  they  caught 
one  alone."  . 

"  Tell  us  !  "  begged  Son. 

"  It  was  Si  Weston,"  Nang  complied, 
"  who  was  campin'  out  one  Spring  on  the 
west  bank  of  the  river.  He  was  all  soul  alone 
excep'  fer  his  two  dogs.  Then,  one  day, 
when  he  was  cookin'  dinner,  two  of  'em  slunk 
up  out  of  the  bushes. 

"  '  We  want  you,'  they  said. 

"'What  fer?'  asked  Si. 

" '  Doggin'  deer,'  the  wardens  speaks 
up. 

"  Just  then  the  dogs  comes  around  the 
corner  of  the  camp  growlin'  and  bristlin,' 
seein'  strangers. 

210 


The  Outlaw 

" '  Call  off  your  dogs !  '  orders  the  war 
dens,  and  points  their  guns  at  'em. 

"  The  dogs  was  young,  and  begins  to  point 
up  their  ears  and  wag  their  tails,  givin'  up 
their  bluff  of  fight.  Si  was  clean  crazy  over 
dogs,  always  foolin'  with  'em,  and  spoilin'  'em 
fer  work.  Now  he  stands  up  and  looks  at 
the  wardens. 

"  '  Shoot  my  dogs  if  you  dare,'  he  says, 
very  quiet. 

"  There  was  two  reports ;  two  little  puffs 
of  smoke,  and  both  dogs  rolls  over  on  their 
backs." 

"Dead?"  quivered  Son. 

"  One  was,"  said  Nang.  "  The  other  lived 
just  long  enough  to  lick  Si's  hand  when 
he  was  bendin'  over  him." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Father.  Son  could  not 
speak. 

"There  ain't  much  more  to  tell,"  said 
Nang. 

"What  happened  to  the  wardens  ?"  Father 
asked. 

"  Si    got  up  and  stood  between  his  dogs' 

211 


"Son" 

bodies,"  said  Nang  quietly,  "  and  shot  'em 
both  dead,  —  one  after  the  other.  They 
dropped  almost  together,  —  went  down  like 
logs,  without  a  sound." 

No  one  spoke  for  a  long  time.     Then,  — 

"  What  became  of  Si  ?  "  asked  Father. 

"  He  ran  away  to  California,"  said  Nang, 
"  and  then  came  back  and  stood  trial,  and 
got  off.  He's  livin'  in  Machias  now." 

"  It's  like  the  trees  on  the  horse-back,  that 
killed  when  they  crashed  over  the  side," 
thought  Son. 

In  his  tent  that  night  he  overheard  Father 
and  the  second  guide  talking,  while  Nang  was 
chopping  wood  at  a  distance.  He  did  not 
mean  to  listen,  but  between  the  dull  thuds  he 
could  not  help  catching  just  a  word  or  two  at 
first,  and  after  that  he  listened  feverishly, 
sitting  up. 

"  Queer  fellow,"  Father  was  saying.  "  He'd 
have  made  a  cracking  lawyer !  " 

"How  did  you  come  to  get  him?"  asked 
the  mathematician,  who  had  been  engaged 
by  Father  independently,  was  from  a  different 
212 


The  Outlaw 

section  of  the  state,  and  had  not  escaped  the 
nervous  irritation  that  even  the  most  even- 
tempered  was  in  danger  of  feeling  after  days 
of  contact  with  Nang. 

"The  guide  I  wrote  for  was  engaged," 
Father  answered,  "  so  he  recommended 
Nang.  Said  there  was  nobody  like  him  in 
the  woods." 

"  Ain't  nobody  like  him  in  the  whole  state 
o'  Maine,"  returned  the  other. 

Something  in  his  inflection  made  Father 
look  up. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked 
quickly. 

"  He's  been  tried  fifty-two  times  fer  vio- 
latin'  the  game-laws,  and  never  convicted." 

"  That  accounts  for  his  legal  training,"  was 
Father's  low  comment. 

The  guide  continued  in  a  whisper. 

"  Remember  the  fire-warden  who  came 
through  at  Gasabeus?"  Son  heard.  "Well, 
he  told  me  Nang  was  wanted  right  now  fer 
burnin'  down  a  warden's  barn." 

"  That  can't  be  !  "  returned  Father  sharply. 
213 


"Son" 

"  He  wouldn't  stoop  to  arson.     I  haven't  been 
with  him  all  this  time  for  nothing." 

"  He  wouldn't  call  it  by  an  ugly  name  like 
that,"  was  the  slow  reply,  "  seein'  the  barn 
belonged  to  a  game  warden." 

From  that  night  on,  Son  kept  a  sort  of 
guard  over  Nang,  and  when  their  trip  drew  to 
a  close  without  anything  having  happened  to 
disturb  it,  his  heart  was  lightened  of  a  great 
load. 

The  last  day  but  two  was  spent  on  Nikataus 
stream,  that  exquisitely  winding  thread,  where 
both  banks  burned  scarlet,  and  each  sharp 
bend  was  more  beautiful  than  the  last.  That 
night  Son  hoped  secretly  that  he  should  hear 
stealthy  foot-falls,  and  when  his  wish  remained 
unrealized  he  rejoiced  at  Father's  decision 
not  to  break  camp  that  day.  "  There's  one 
more  night !  "  he  thought  hopefully. 

It  looked  cozy  and  homelike  on  the  bank, 
as  the  keels  of  the  canoes  drew  up  on  the 
pebbles  the  second  afternoon,  after  a  good 
day's  fishing.  Son  was  so  glad  the  white 
tents  stood  there,  welcoming,  with  no  poles 
214 


The  Outlaw 

to  be  cut,  and  no  gunny-sacks  to  be  undone. 
The  next  day  was  to  be  spent  on  still  another 
river,  —  the  Passadumkeag,  —  the  last  of  the 
trip. 

While  they  were  sitting  at  supper,  they 
heard  a  sound  in  the  woods.  Son  turned 
cold  with  excitement.  Could  it  be?  Of 
course  not.  How  could  he  have  imagined 
that  a  wild  animal  would  seek  out  the  haunts 
of  men  in  broad  daylight? 

The  low  bushes  parted,  and  in  their  midst 
stood  the  new-comer.  He  was  beautiful  as  a 
young  god,  and  he  stood  silent  as  a  statue, 
drawn  up  to  his  great  height.  Son  had 
plenty  of  time  to  look  at  him,  from  his  curly 
head  and  splendid  bronzed  face,  with  eyes  as 
blue  and  gentle  as  the  stream  at  their  feet,  to 
his  heavy  boots,  before  he  spoke. 

"  Evenin',"  he  said. 

"Won't  you  have  some  supper?"  Father 
asked. 

"  No,  thank  you,  —  can't  stop." 

And  with  that  he  turned  and  went  back 
into  the  bushes.  But  not  without  a  whispered 
215 


"  Son  " 

word  to  Nang  as  he  passed  him  by.  Nang 
gave  no  sigh,  —  not  a  muscle  moved.  So  no 
one  saw  but  Son,  who  was  ever  on  the  watch. 

That  night  Son  could  not  sleep.  Heart 
and  mind  were  full  of  the  errand  of  their 
visitor,  who  had  travelled  thus  silently,  not 
by  water,  but  on  foot,  for  countless  miles, 
with  nothing  in  his  hand  but  an  axe,  and,  his 
message  given,  had  vanished  into  the  forest 
whence  he  had  come.  The  trees  had  closed 
behind  him  as  water  closes  over  the  head  of  a 
drowning  man ;  they  held  him  and  his  secret 
in  their  faithful  hearts,  and  would  not  tell. 

"  Nang's  got  another  friend  beside  me !  " 
thought  Son,  grateful,  yet  a  little  jealous.  "  I 
wish  /  could  do  something  to  help  him  too  !  " 

He  longed  to  be  one  of  those  who  knew 
the  woods,  as  these  men  know  them.  Though 
he  could  not  express  it,  he  felt  instinctively 
the  mutual  dependence  of  naked  man  and 
naked  nature.  Here  man  was  as  he  had 
ever  been,  brother  of  the  first  man  Adam 
who  had  been  made  a  living  soul. 

He  felt  a  sickening  anxiety  for  his  friend. 
216 


The  Outlaw 

It  had  come  at  last,  —  the  urgent  message  he 
had  been  half  expecting,  wholly  dreading. 

Had  Nang  really  burned  down  somebody's 
barn?  That  was  a  very  wrong  thing  to  do. 
Father  had  called  it  by  one  of  those  names 
of  which  he  had  such  a  store  in  his  vocabulary. 

"  But  I'm  sure  there  were  no  cows  in  it ! " 
he  reflected.  "  Nang  would  never  have  done 
it  without  taking  out  the  cows.  He's  too 
fond  of  everything  alive." 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  young  men  of 
Machias,  of  whom  Nang,  now  so  broken,  had 
been  one  but  ten  years  ago;  he  saw  them 
in  their  fort  of  logs,  holding  it  against  all 
comers,  bidding  them  defiantly  to  come  on. 

Then  he  pictured  to  himself  Si  Weston, 
taking  calmly  a  man's  life  in  payment  for 
that  of  a  dog.  "  It  was  wicked  "  he  decided, 
and  buried  his  face.  "  Oh,  the  poor  dogs  !  " 
he  sobbed. 

The  law  was  right;  Father  had  told  him 
so.  Mother's  law  governed  his  life.  With 
out  it,  all  would  be  confusion.  But  the  young 
men  of  Machias  had  decreed  it  otherwise. 
217 


«  Son  " 

"  The  woods  are  theirs !  "  Son's  heart  insisted 
in  justifying  them. 

Was  ever  little  boy  so  torn? 

Father  turned  in  quietly,  and  for  hours 
after  he  was  asleep  Son  lay  staring  into  the 
dark,  with  a  dull  ache  over  his  eyes. 

He  must  have  slept  finally,  for  all  at  once 
he  was  broad  awake,  —  every  sense  alert. 
Something  had  awakened  him,  of  that  he  was 
sure.  He  had  never  been  afraid  of  the  night, 
and  it  held  no  terrors  for  him  now  as  he 
arose  and  without  putting  on  his  shoes  crept 
softly  out  of  the  tent 

He  stopped  to  listen,  and  his  straining 
ears  caught  a  faint  sound.  A  light  object 
was  being  pushed  gently  and  cautiously  into 
the  water.  The  moon  shone  with  faint  and 
watery  gleam,  obscured  for  a  moment  by  a 
black  cloud  gliding  across  it.  When  it  came 
out,  a  small,  shadowy  figure,  standing,  was 
pushing  a  canoe  farther  and  farther  out  into 
the  stream.  It  made  ready  to  spring  in  and 
then  hesitated.  Softly,  with  cat-like  footsteps, 
it  turned  and  left  the  water's  edge.  Son, 
218 


The  Outlaw 

who  had  drawn  back  into  the  bushes,  thought 
Nang  must  surely  hear  him  breathe. 

Nang's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  tents,  gleam 
ing  ghostly  white  above.  Outside  of  Son's 
he  stopped,  wavered,  and  then  retraced  his 
steps. 

Son  knew  that  Nang  had  run  some  risk 
for  that  silent  farewell.  He  longed  —  oh,  how 
he  longed,  to  come  out  and  whisper : 

"  I'm  right  here,  Nang  —  right  here  with 
you ! " 

It  required  a  supreme  effort  for  Son  to 
stifle  the  impulse  of  his  loving  heart  and  re 
main  hidden.  Should  he  make  himself  known, 
a  whisper  might  be  heard,  or  precious  seconds 
lost. 

Once  more  the  little  man  reached  the 
water's  edge,  stepped  into  his  canoe  and 
pushed  off.  Carefully  he  let  himself  down 
in  the  bow  and  dipped  in  his  paddle.  The 
canoe  began  to  move  down  stream,  slowly  at 
first,  then  gaining  speed.  There  was  no 
sound,  for  Nang  kept  his  paddle  always  in 
the  water.  Son  came  out  of  hiding  and 
219 


"  Son " 

watched  the  canoe  until  he  lost  it  in  distant 
shadows. 

He  felt  terribly  alone.  Silence  was  the 
law  of  the  woods,  —  silence  when  one  heard 
a  moose  at  the  foot  of  a  skidway,  —  silence 
when  one  saw  a  mink's  little  head  peeping  out 
from  behind  a  big  rock,  —  silence  when  one 
watched  a  man  stealing  away  into  the  night. 

Son  went  back  to  his  tent. 

The  trees  bent  toward  him  on  the  way, 
rustled  by  a  sudden  breeze,  and  his  sad 
heart  was  comforted,  for  they  seemed  to  tell 
him  that  he  had  done  well. 


220 


COUSIN   LEMUEL 


COUSIN   LEMUEL 


SON   was  writing  a  story.     This  was  the 
beginning  of  it: 

I. 

"  As  the  last  bell  of  school  rang  two  boys 
emerged  from  the  line  and  walked  briskly 
toward  a  large  group  of  trees  with  a  pipe 
sticking  out  of  the  top  of  them.  They  turned 
into  a  path  which  was  nothing  but  some 
gravel.  As  they  neared  the  spot  they  mut 
tered  something  and  disappeared  in  between 
two  of  the  trees.  One  could  have  thought 
they  disappeared  by  magic,  but  my  reader 
knows  the  truth,  I  hope." 

Son  stopped,  and  sat  biting  his  pencil.  He 
felt  that  he  was  not  in  the  right  vein.  His 
reference  to  the  reader  seemed  to  him  inar 
tistic,  but  who  was  he,  after  all,  that  at  eight 
years  old  he  should  depart  from  the  model 
223 


"Son" 

set  by  most  of  the  boys'1  books  he  had  read  ? 
He  went  on. 

"  There  was  a  small  hut  in  those  trees,  and 
the  pipe  was  the  chimney." 

Son  wanted  to  give  the  boys'  hut  the  back 
ground  that  he  knew,  —  daisy-dotted  meadow, 
murmuring  water,  hazy-blue  mountains,  and 
white  cloudlets  gradually  cobwebbing  a  sum 
mer  sky,  for  he  occupied  most  of  the  spare 
hours  of  his  eight  city  months  in  dreaming  of 
the  paradise  in  which  he  spent  the  other  four. 
But  it  was  of  no  use  to-day,  white  wagons  roll 
ing  and  motors  puffing  outside,  and  the  rain 
beating  down  steadily  all  that  weary  Sunday 
afternoon.  So  he  gave  up  description,  and 
decided  to  plunge  his  boys  into  adventure 
instead.  He  brought  one  of  them,  after  many 
wanderings,  to  the  door  of  a  summer  cottage, 
and  through  the  kindness  of  those  within, 
gave  him  entrance. 

"  What  a  castle  it  was  in  his  eyes  ! "  scrib 
bled  Son.  "  What  wonderful  tapestries  —  " 

Once  more  he  stopped,  tore  the  sheet 
across,  went  over  to  the  window,  and  stood 
224 


Cousin  Lemuel 

looking  out  into  the  dreary  street.  Then  he 
came  back  to  his  little  table,  and  touched 
with  gentle  fingers  the  great  yellow  pad  with 
its  blue  lines,  which  he  had  borrowed  from 
Father  for  his  literary  efforts.  There  were 
certain  things  which  made  Son's  heart  beat : 
piano  keys,  waiting  silent  and  unobtrusive  for 
the  inspired  touch;  blank  pages,  suggest 
ive  of  riotous  and  wonderful  imaginings. 
Son's  eyes  filled.  There  was  so  much  to  be 
done,  and  he  was  so  small  and  incapable  of 
doing  it.  A  longing  rose  in  him  for  com 
panionship,  —  light  of  eyes,  —  touch  of  hand. 
In  the  library,  he  was  aware,  it  was  the  hour 
for  drawn  curtains,  firelight,  and  tea,  —  with 
kettle  humming  and  bubbles  in  commotion 
at  the  bottom,  just  making  up  their  minds  to 
rise  slowly  to  the  surface,  one  by  one.  But 
that  was  not  what  he  wanted  just  now ! 
Gradually  his  vague  need  took  concrete 
form. 

Of  course.     It  was  Cousin  Lemuel  that  he 
wished  for.     Dear   Cousin   Lemuel,  who  on 
the  occasion  of  his  last  visit  had  listened  so 
225 


"Son" 

respectfully  to  Son's  explanation  of  his  latest 
invention,  and  had  pored  over  its  demonstra 
tion  on  paper  for  at  least  half  an  hour.  His 
comments  had  consisted  merely  of  "  Oh !  " 
"  Ah !  "  and  "  Indeed  !  "  but  they  had  been 
perfectly  satisfactory  to  Son.  Father  had 
convinced  him  in  five  minutes  later  on  that 
the  invention  was  no  good.  "  His  mind  is 
utterly  unscientific !  "  he  had  remarked  dis 
contentedly  to  Mother. 

Son,  while  accepting  Father's  verdict,  had 
not  been  able  to  resist  going  over  the  draw 
ings  anew  in  unoccupied  moments,  making 
amplifications  and  improvements  in  anticipa 
tion  of  Cousin  Lemuel's  next  visit.  He  had 
not  come  last  Sunday,  nor  the  Sunday  before. 
He  must  come  to-day ! 

In  the  library  Mother  sat  up,  looking  as 
though  she  had  never  lolled  in  her  life.  The 
bell  had  tinkled. 

"  I  hope  it's  not  Cousin  Lemuel !  "  she 
said. 

"  I  hope  not !  "  responded  Father  fervently. 

But  it  was. 

226 


Cousin  Lemuel 

They  looked  at  each  other,  oblivious  of  the 
waiting  maid. 

"  We've  got  to  see  him,"  said  Mother. 

"  I  suppose  we  have,"  Father  replied 
ruefully. 

A  silence  followed  the  retreat  of  the  maid, 
interrupted  presently  by  a  slight  creaking 
on  the  stair.  In  a  moment  more  the  visitor 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  I  hope  I'm  not  interrupting,"  he  said 
stiffly,  his  vague  blue  eyes  turning  from  one 
to  the  other  of  his  hosts. 

"  Not  at  all ! "  cried  Father  in  a  tone  of 
bluff  heartiness  that  sounded  hollow  in  his 
own  ears. 

"  How  could  you  think  of  such  a  thing ! " 
Mother  added  lamely. 

Though  she  knew  this  to  be  merely  Cousin 
Lemuel's  "  way,"  she  despaired  of  being  able 
to  guide  the  conversation  out  of  the  channel 
into  which  his  ineptitude  had  thrust  it.  She 
wished,  almost  angrily,  that  he  would  come 
in  without  being  urged,  and,  once  in,  would 
sit  down  without  being  urged  again.  "  I 
227 


"Son" 

don't  know  why  he  comes  at  all,"  she  thought. 
That  subtle  perception  which  belongs  to 
childhood,  and  which,  outlasting  that  period, 
makes  spiritual  natures,  old  or  young,  did  not 
come  to  Mother's  aid  as  she  looked  at  Cousin 
Lemuel's  frock-coated  figure,  his  necktie 
drawn  through  a  gold  band  with  a  moonstone 
in  it,  his  bald  head  showing  pink  between 
shadowy  bumps.  Her  instrument  was  a  sen 
sitive  one,  with  strings  at  once  delicate  and 
powerful,  but  she  had  lost  the  habit  of  play 
ing  on  it,  and  had  let  the  strings  get  out  of 
tune.  It  was  a  pity.  For  now  there  was 
nothing  to  tell  her  that  this  silent,  elderly 
relative,  so  ill  at  ease,  vibrated  to  her  every 
look  and  motion.  Into  this  tall  and  graceful 
lady  had  grown  the  daughter  of  his  only 
friend  —  the  child  who  had  used  to  run  to 
him  with  open  arms  and  face  all  dimpled 
with  pleasure.  Wonderful ! 

Absorbed  in  thought  of  her  he  had  taken 

his  homeward  way  three  Sundays  ago,  after 

supper  and  a  long  evening.     The  night  had 

been  fine,  so  he  had  walked  to  his  hotel.     "  I 

228 


Cousin  Lemuel 

can't  go  next  Sunday,"  he  had  thought,  me 
chanically  holding  out  his  hand  across  the 
office  counter.  The  clerk  had  placed  in  it  an 
iron  key  with  dangling  brass  tag.  "  Nor 
next  Sunday,"  he  had  reflected,  fitting  the 
key  into  his  lock.  "  Perhaps  the  Sunday 
after,"  he  had  pondered,  reappearing  from 
within  and  placing  his  boots  with  precision 
side  by  side  on  the  threshold.  And  when 
the  promised  day  had  dawned  he  had  man 
aged  to  restrain  himself  yet  another  week. 

"  Anyhow,"  thought  Mother,  as  the  three 
sat  on,  Cousin  Lemuel  having  declined  tea, 
"  we'll  escape  a  whole  evening  of  it.  I  must 
tell  him  pretty  soon  that  we're  dining  out." 

Then  Son  burst  in  and  saved  the  situation. 

"  Cousin  Lemuel ! "  he  cried  ecstatically. 
"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I  wanted  you  !  It's 
rained  all  day,  and  I  tried  to  write  a  story, 
but  it  was  horrible,  and  then  I  began  to  wish 
and  wish  that  you'd  come.  And  I  want  to 
explain  to  you  —  "  He  broke  off,  remember 
ing  his  unscientific  mind.  After  all,  it  didn't 
really  matter  about  the  invention.  What 
229 


"  Son  " 

mattered  was  that  Cousin  Lemuel  was  here, 
holding  Son's  hand  in  one  of  his  and  patting 
it  softly  with  the  other. 

"  Why  didn't  you  send  for  me  ? "  Son 
said  reproachfully  to  Mother.  "  I  didn't  hear 
the  bell  at  all !  I've  lost  all  this  time." 

"  Only  a  few  minutes,"  apologized  Father, 
surprised  on  glancing  at  the  clock  to  find 
that  he  spoke  truth. 

Son  spent  the  next  hour  motionless  at 
Cousin  Lemuel's  side,  listening  to  his  occa 
sional  remarks  on  the  condition  of  the  stock 
market,  the  state  of  the  weather,  or  the  activ 
ities  of  the  National  Hide  and  Buckskin 
Bank,  of  which  he  had  been  the  paying  teller 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  To  these  last 
Son  lent  strict  attention,  for  he  had  visited 
Cousin  Lemuel  once  in  business  hours,  and 
had  never  forgotten  how  he  had  given  out 
crisp  bank-notes  to  a  humbly  waiting  line  of 
people.  Ever  since,  Cousin  Lemuel  had 
seemed  to  him  very  rich  and  great. 

Son  sat  faithfully  on,  though  the  nerves  in 
his  legs  had  begun  to  twitch,  and  the  desire 
230 


Cousin  Lemuel 

to  change  his  position  amounted  almost  to 
physical  pain.  Finally  his  supper  was  an 
nounced,  and  Cousin  Lemuel  arose,  —  as  a 
matter  of  form. 

It  was  an  embarrassing  moment  for  Mother. 
Cousin  Lemuel  was  very  sensitive.  "  Touchy, 
/  call  it,"  Father  always  said  bluntly,  when 
this  quality  was  under  discussion. 

"  If  I  could  only  tell  him  where  we're 
dining,"  Mother  reflected,  "it  would  be  all 
right.  But  I  can't  mention  Aunt  Winifred, 
for  she  hasn't  noticed  his  existence  for  years." 
Mother  remembered  certain  remarks  of  the 
redoubtable  and  witty  old  woman  at  Cousin 
Lemuel's  expense.  She  felt  a  twinge  of  con 
science,  for  they  had  made  her  smile. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  nervously,  "we're 
going  out  to  dinner.  But  you  mustn't  think 
of  leaving  yet.  Please  sit  down  again." 

Cousin  Lemuel  remained  standing,  and 
quickly  drew  himself  together.  His  voice 
trembled  a  little  when  he  spoke. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  he  said.  "  It's  getting 
late." 

231 


"  Son  " 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  pause. 

Then  Son  came  up,  and  lifted  his  face  to 
Cousin  Lemuel's.  His  whole  heart  was  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Come  and  have  supper  with  Baby  and 
me,"  he  said.  "Please  do!  Oh,  Mother,  let 
him  stay !  " 

Mother  caught  at  the  suggestion  eagerly. 

"  Do,  Cousin  Lemuel !  "  she  cried.  "  It 
would  be  such  a  delight  to  the  children." 

By  the  time  they  had  succeeded  in  persuad 
ing  him  to  do  what  he  desired,  the  cereal  had 
ceased  smoking  and  had  in  fact  grown  so  cold 
that  it  had  to  be  sent  to  the  kitchen  again. 
But  that  was  a  detail. 

Mother,  who  went  down  with  them,  did 
not  fail  to  catch  Cousin  Lemuel's  suspicious 
glance  through  the  dining-room  door,  nor  his 
look  of  relief  at  seeing  that  the  big  table 
was  not  set.  "  How  lucky  I  didn't  order 
their  supper  in  the  nursery !  "  she  thought. 
Then  she  excused  herself  hurriedly  and  ran 
off  to  dress,  for  Aunt  Winifred  kept  early 
hours. 

232 


Cousin  Lemuel 

Father  was  upstairs  already,  banging  about. 

"  Thank  Heaven  I  haven't  any  relative  like 
that !  "  he  called  out  savagely  from  his  room, 
ripping  off  his  collar. 

Mother  took  out  two  shell  hairpins  without 
reply,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  scored. 

"  How  about  your  great-aunt  Susan  in 
Worcester !  "  she  then  called  out  sweetly. 

The  rest  of  the  dressing  was  accomplished 
in  silence.  Meanwhile  things  were  going 
smoothly  in  the  dining-room.  The  meal  over, 
Baby,  pleased  at  company,  graciously  con 
sented  to  accompany  the  visitor  back  to  the 
library,  and  even  to  sit  on  his  knee,  from 
which  precarious  slope  she  slid  down  at  the 
end  of  half  a  second.  Then  she  went  away 
without  ceremony  to  her  own  domain,  having 
decided  at  a  glance  that  Cousin  Lemuel  was 
not  of  those  who  may  be  fed,  driven,  or 
stalled  in  corners  behind  sofas,  and  was  there 
fore  unsuited  to  her  purposes. 

At  last  Son's  time  had  come.  With  a  sigh 
of  content  he  got  out  his  stamp  collection, 
and  holding  the  big  book  under  his  arm, 
233 


«  Son  " 

settled  himself  on  the  sofa,  drawing  Cousin 
Lemuel  down  beside  him. 

"  Did  you  ever  collect  stamps?  "  asked  Son, 
opening  the  volume  on  his  knees. 

Cousin  Lemuel  shook  his  head.  But  he 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  every  page,  as 
Son  turned  each  slowly,  expounding  and  ex 
plaining.  In  this  collection  he  and  Father 
were  at  present  equally  absorbed,  and  many 
an  hour  had  the  two  spent  over  it  in  happy 
comradeship,  satisfying  a  common  interest  in 
lands  and  people  far  away. 

"  What  did  you  do  when  you  were  a  little 
boy?"  asked  Son  finally,  closing  the  book. 

Cousin  Lemuel  drew  his  brows  together, 
trying  to  gather  up  memories  of  that  forgotten 
time. 

"  Never  mind  !  "  cried  Son.  "  Did  you 
ever  travel  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Cousin  Lemuel,  brightening. 

"  Oh,  where  ?"  Son  asked.  "  I  wish  /could ! 
Tell  me  about  it." 

"  I  went  to  Bermuda  once,  —  about  twenty 
years  ago,"  was  the  reply. 
234 


Cousin  Lemuel 

"What  was  it  like?" 

"Very  nice,"  said  Cousin  Lemuel.  "I 
used  to  sit  on  the  hotel  piazza  and  watch  the 
young  ladies  and  the  young  gentlemen  play 
ing  lawn  tennis.  It  was  very  gay." 

"Was  it  pretty  in  that  country?" 

Cousin  Lemuel  pondered  a  moment  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  classify  what 
passed  under  his  eyes  in  this  way,  since  there 
had  been  no  one  to  question  him  as  to  his 
impressions.  He  would  have  liked  to  satisfy 
Son. 

"  The  roads  were  straight,"  he  began  tenta 
tively.  "  They  were  made  of  broken  oyster 
shells." 

He  looked  at  his  interlocutor  narrowly, 
fearing  his  disappointment.  But  Son  was 
filling  in  the  meagre  outlines  for  himself. 

"  I  know  what  grows  in  the  tropics  !  "  he 
said.  "  You  must  have  seen  palm  trees  !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  were  palms,"  agreed  Cousin 
Lemuel.  "  Palms,  of  course." 

And  when  Son's  bedtime  came  the  old 
man  was  thinking  of  oyster  shells  no  longer, 

235 


"Son" 

but  of  trees   whose   forms  were  quaint  and 
curious  and  whose  shade  was  deep. 

About  three  weeks  after  this,  Mother  came 
in  one  afternoon,  tired  out.  She  had  been 
motoring,  and  an  hour  from  home  had  come 
a  light  snow-flurry.  The  chains  had  been 
left  behind,  and  the  machine  had  skidded 
continually. 

"  There's  nothing  that  gets  on  my  nerves 
like  skidding,"  Mother  announced  to  Father, 
as  they  finally  descended  in  safety. 

"  That's  obvious,"  Father  wanted  to  retort, 
but  he  refrained.  "  I'm  going  in  next  door 
to  speak  to  Holworth  for  a  minute,"  he  said 
instead. 

"  I  won't  see  any  one"  Mother  directed  the 
maid  who  opened  the  door.  "  Say  I'm  not 
at  home."  She  turned  for  a  moment  to  give 
another  order,  and  then  ran  upstairs. 

It  was  that  instant's  turning  that  did  all  the 
damage. 

Cousin  Lemuel,  just  rounding  the  corner, 
saw  the  motor  at  the  house  and  hurried  his 
236 


Cousin  Lemuel 

footsteps.  A  shy  pink  showed  in  each  cheek, 
and  his  blue  eyes  had  lost  their  vagueness. 
He  was  quite  breathless  when  he  reached 
the  steps.  The  door  was  uncurtained,  for 
Mother  was  still  waiting  to  pick  up  a  piece 
of  Italian  lace  for  it  at  auction.  Through 
the  polished  glass  he  could  see,  furred  and 
glowing  rosy  in  spite  of  the  state  of  her 
nerves,  her  whom  he  loved  as  a  daughter, 
and  to  whom  he  always  referred  in  his  inmost 
thoughts  as  his  "little  girl."  His  pulses 
quickened  when  she  looked  toward  the  door 
and  saw  him,  as  he  thought.  He  raised  his 
hand  to  his  silk  hat  and  pressed  the  bell.  A 
moment  later  he  was  descending  the  steps, 
having  carefully  dropped  two  pasteboards 
into  an  extended  card  tray. 

The  maid  watched  him  in  some  uneasiness 
of  mind.  Mother's  tone  had  been  petulant,  — 
an  unusual  circumstance  which  allowed  her 
no  exercise  of  discretion.  What  was  to  be 
done? 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  children,  sir?" 
she  bethought  herself  of  calling  out. 
237 


"Son" 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  he  answered  her  with 
distant  courtesy.  "  Some  other  time.  Not 
to-day  —  not  to-day. " 

Son  saw  the  cards  on  the  tray  when  he 
went  down  to  supper.  He  ran  into  the  pan 
try  at  once  to  make  inquiries,  but  could  not 
find  the  parlor-maid,  who  was  in  her  own 
quarters,  engaged  in  those  long  and  serious 
preparations  that  are  a  necessary  adjunct  to 
an  evening  out  He  ran  up  to  Mother's 
room  next.  There  was  a  slip  pinned  to  the 
door  bearing  in  her  neat  handwriting  the 
words  "  Do  not  knock."  He  stood  there, 
baffled,  —  a  poor  little  Adam,  barred  out  of 
his  Garden  of  Eden  by  flaming  swords. 

Mathilde  insisted  on  his  going  to  bed  early 
because  he  had  not  eaten  his  supper  and 
must  therefore  be  ill.  Could  she  have  minis 
tered  to  his  heart  as  she  did  to  his  body,  what 
a  wonderful  person  she  would  have  been, 
this  Mathilde,  who  sat  outside  his  door  until 
half-past  ten  and  then  went  to  bed  with  con 
science  clear,  having  done  her  whole  duty  as 
she  saw  it. 

238 


Cousin  Lemuel 

Son  could  not  sleep.  If  Mother  was  out 
when  Cousin  Lemuel  came,  why  hadn't  Mary 
brought  him  up  to  the  nursery  to  wait  for  her? 

Cousin  Lemuel  was  awake,  too,  in  his  room 
at  the  hotel.  He  had  not  even  begun  to  un 
dress.  He  was  thinking  strange  thoughts 
for  him. 

The  hall  boy,  coming  along  to  collect  the 
shoes,  did  not  find  any  outside  of  Cousin 
Lemuel's  room,  so  he  passed  on  to  the  next 

When  Son  obtained  an  explanation  from 
Mary,  it  was  only  a  partial  one.  For  who 
could  have  guessed  that  the  poor  old  gentle 
man  would  fail  to  realize  the  impossibility  of 
seeing  from  the  lighted  hall  any  one  stand 
ing  without,  in  the  gathering  darkness  of  the 
short  winter  afternoon  ? 

Mother  laughed  at  Son's  anxieties  when  he 
confided  them  to  her.  "  You  carry  the  bur 
dens  of  the  whole  world  on  your  shoulders," 
she  said.  But  she  wrote  a  note  to  Cousin 
Lemuel,  inviting  him  to  dinner  on  the  follow 
ing  Sunday,  and  left  it  herself  at  the  hotel. 
239 


"Son" 

Next  morning  when  she  opened  her  mail 
Son  was  at  her  elbow. 

"  Is  there  an  answer?"  he  queried. 

"Answer  to  what?"  she  replied  absently. 
"  No,  there  isn't.  Run  along." 

"  She  didn't  know  what  I  was  talking 
about,"  he  thought  sorrowfully,  as  he  went. 

When  he  came  home  from  school  he  found 
that  she  had  gone  to  Philadelphia  with 
Father  on  one  of  those  sudden  business  trips 
she  was  always  ready  to  join. 

Son  stood  in  the  confusion  of  her  room, 
and  watched  her  maid  putting  things  to  rights. 
He  picked  up  one  of  her  handkerchiefs,  —  a 
pretty  feminine  thing  of  lace  and  embroidery 
that  somehow  made  the  room  seem  more 
motherless  than  before.  It  was  not  good  to 
be  a  child.  For  people  left  you  all  alone 
with  anxieties  that  they  did  not  even  know 
you  had. 

It  was  on  Saturday  that  Mother  returned. 

"Has  the  letter  come?"  Son  asked  her 
gravely. 

This  time  she  did  not  inquire  what  he 
240 


Cousin  Lemuel 

meant,  but  began  at  once  to  search  through 
the  pile  that  had  accumulated  during  her 
absence. 

"  I  haven't  come  to  it  yet,"  she  said,  trying 
to  speak  reassuringly.  "  But  it's  here,  of 
course.  I'll  find  it  in  a  minute." 

It  was  not  to  be  found. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  ill,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  Son  answered.  "  Per 
haps  he  thought  you  didn't  want  to  see  him," 
he  added  slowly. 

"  How  stupid  of  him  !  "  she  exclaimed  in 
some  impatience.  "  But  I  must  send  and 
look  him  up.  How  would  you  like  to  go?  " 

"  It's  not  me  he  wants,"  said  Son.  "  It's 
you.  Oh,  Mother,  he  loves  you  so  !  " 

An  expression  of  utter  incredulity  crossed 
her  face. 

"Why,  no,  he  doesn't,"  she  said.  "What 
put  such  an  idea  into  your  head?" 

Son  put  his  arms  around  her  neck  and 
hugged  her  tight. 

"  Do  you  think  that's  so  funny? "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  Son,  Son  !  "  she  cried,  burying  her 
241 


"Son" 

face  on  his  shoulder.  "  I  don't  know  any 
thing.  Tell  me !  " 

Son  loved  the  little  perfumeless  perfume  of 
Mother's  clothes  as  he  sat  beside  her  in  the 
motor,  the  tilt  of  her  hat,  the  feel  of  her 
glove  when  his  hand  touched  it,  for  her  eyes 
looked  to  him  and  her  heart  beat  in  tune  to 
his  as  she  took  over  the  burden  he  had  car 
ried  unaided  all  these  days. 

Her  world  looked  so  different  in  the  light 
that  this  last  half-hour  had  cast  that  she  was 
scarcely  surprised  at  the  information  given  in 
a  matter-of-fact  tone  by  the  clerk  at  the  hotel 
office.  Still  she  did  not  seem  able  to  think 
what  to  do.  For  many  minutes  she  stood 
there,  staring. 

"  He  was  here  for  years,"  volunteered  the 
clerk  at  length,  moved  to  sympathy.  "  Long 
before  /  came.  We  asked  if  there  was  any 
dissatisfaction,  and  he  said  'None  at  all.' 
Just  paid  his  bill  and  left." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mother,  and  turned 
away.  "We  shouldn't  find  him  at  the  bank, 
—  it's  after  hours,"  she  whispered  to  Son. 
242 


Cousin  Lemuel 

"We'll  go  home  and  telephone  Father.  That's 
the  best  thing  to  do.  He  went  directly  to  his 
office  from  the  train." 

While  she  telephoned  Son  stood  by,  and  in 
his  presence  she  controlled  her  agitation  and 
spoke  quietly. 

"  He'll  ring  me  up  as  soon  as  he  finds  out," 
she  said,  hanging  up  the  receiver.  "  He's 
going  to  talk  to  Mr.  Janeway  —  that's  the 
president  of  the  bank —  if  he's  in  town." 

They  waited  in  suspense  for  ten  long  min 
utes.  When  the  call  came,  Son,  watching 
Mother's,  face  saw  it  turn  white. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  cried  in  dread. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  answered,  and  wished 
that  she  had  not 

When  she  had  finished  talking  she  arose, 
and  with  both  hands  on  Son's  shoulders  stood 
looking  down  at  him. 

"  Mr.  Janeway  doesn't  know  where  he  is," 
she  said.  "  Cousin  Lemuel  has  resigned." 

Still  looking  at  him,  she  perceived  that  he 
had   failed   to   understand.     He  was  such  a 
little  boy.     She  was  always  forgetting  that. 
243 


"Son" 

"  He  isn't  there  any  more,"  she  explained 
gently.  "  Behind  the  little  window,  you 
know." 

This  time  Son  understood.  He  was  al 
most  overwhelmed  by  the  magnitude  of  this 
disaster.  It  made  Mother's  heart  ache  to 
see  how  he  trembled. 

"  Don't !  "  she  said,  drawing  him  within 
her  arms.  "  Oh,  Son !  he  must  have  been 
very  unhappy  to  give  up  his  work !  " 

"  Why  did  they  let  him  ?  How  could  they  ?  " 
Son's  voice  was  sharp  with  indignation. 

Mother's  face  hardened.  Son  had  never 
seen  it  look  so  stern. 

"They  didn't  want  him  any  more.  He 
was  old  and  slow.  They  were  glad  of  an 
excuse." 

She  looked  into  Son's  hurt,  shocked  face, 
and  everything  in  her  melted. 

" Perhaps  they  didn't  know"  she  said,  and 
added  humbly,  —  "like  me." 

Then  she  gave  him  a  hurried  kiss,  as  if  she 
had  just  remembered  that  there  were  things 
to  be  done. 

244 


Cousin  Lemuel 

"  I've  got  to  go  and  meet  Father,"  she  said. 
"I'll  be  back  soon." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  take  me  ?  "  he  asked, 
aghast. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  cried.  "I  can't  tell 
what  — "  She  shuddered  at  her  thought, 
and  went  out. 

Never  had  Son  felt  so  utterly  alone.  There 
were  no  sounds,  even  from  the  street.  He, 
too,  must  do  something,  or  his  heart  would 
break.  But  what?  In  his  despair  words 
came  back  to  him,  — words  in  Mother's  voice. 

"  Perhaps  they  didn't  know." 

They  must  be  told,  then !  Son's  face 
cleared,  and  his  eyes  shone,  as  he  ran  over 
to  the  desk  and  began  busily  turning  the 
leaves  of  the  telephone  book.  Janeway. 
That  was  the  name!  But  which?  There 
were  so  many  Janeways  in  the  book.  He 
must  go  down  the  list.  That  was  all. 

Son  went  at  it  with  his  customary  attack, 

brows  knit  and  forefinger   laboring.     There 

was    nothing    on    the    page     about     bank 

presidents.     Grocers,  tailors,  doctors  —  Yes. 

245 


"Son" 

Bank  presidents  —  No.  Through  the  names 
of  all  the  Janeways  whose  occupations  were 
indicated,  he  drew  a  line  in  pencil. 

"  I'll  have  to  call  up  the  rest,"  he  decided. 

His  fifth  attempt  succeeded.  But,  alas  ! 
Mr.  Janeway,  the  right  Mr.  Janeway,  who 
was  indeed  a  bank  president,  was  out. 

"  Oh,  please,"  implored  Son  desperately, 
"  tell  me  where  he  is !  " 

Fortunately  for  Son  it  was  the  afternoon 
in  of  the  Janeway  butler.  He  was  a  human 
butler,  fond  of  boys. 

"  He's  at  a  directors'  meeting,"  came  the 
prompt  answer.  "  There's  a  directors'  meet 
ing  at  the  bank  at  five.  Who  shall  I 
say—" 

The  butler  stood  nonplussed.  He  had  been 
cut  off. 

"  It  was  a  little  lad,"  he  reflected,  "  and  he 
wanted  Mr.  Janeway  bad.  Talked  like  a  man, 
too.  So  I  answered  him  like  one." 

In  the  private  office  of  the  president,  at  a 
table  of  San  Domingo  mahogany,  sat  the 
officers  of  the  National  Hide  and  Buckskin 
246 


Cousin  Lemuel 

Bank.  They  were  very  black  as  to  coats  and 
very  white  as  to  collars,  and  if  there  were 
hearts  under  their  waistcoats  they  were  not 
conscious  of  them.  For  the  heart  is  a  negli 
gible  quantity  when  it  comes  to  a  directors' 
meeting. 

"  Gentlemen,"  began  Mr.  Janeway,  "  as  we 
have  a  great  deal  of  business  to  attend  to,  we 
had  better  come  to  order. " 

The  gentlemen  moved  slightly  and  fixed 
their  eyes  on  the  speaker. 

"  The  first  matter  before  us,"  continued  the 
president,  "  is  the  resignation  of  Mr.  Lemuel 
Patterson,  our  paying  teller." 

He  paused.  Hearing  no  comments,  he 
went  on. 

"This  was  made  in  a  manner  somewhat 
unusual,  —  to  use  no  harsher  term.  Last 
Monday  morning,  without  notice,  and  during 
my  absence  in  Pittsburg  Mr.  Patterson  re 
mained  away  from  the  bank.  He  made  no 
explanation  whatever.  In  the  shortest  pos 
sible  note,  addressed  to  me  and  mailed  to 
my  house,  he  stated  that  he  wished  to  resign. 
247 


"Son" 

Nothing  more.  The  note  was  not  forwarded, 
and  it  was  therefore  not  until  my  return  to 
day  that  I  received  it." 

"  Casual !  "  remarked  the  vice-president. 

"  So  it  appeared  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Janeway 
coldly.  "  It  seems,"  he  added,  "  that  his  rela 
tives  did  not  know  of  it  until  to-day,  either. 
He  has  moved,  and  they  were  looking  for 
him  not  two  hours  ago.  They  have  undoubt 
edly  found  him  by  this  time. " 

"How  are  the  books?"  a  voice  asked 
sharply. 

A  few  crows'  feet  shaped  themselves  about 
Mr.  Janeway 's  eyes. 

"  I  lost  no  time  in  examining  them,"  he 
said.  "  They  are  perfect." 

"What  possible  motive  .  .  ."  mused  the 
vice-president 

But  Mr.  Janeway  was  glancing  at  the  mem 
oranda  before  him  on  the  table.  The  motives 
actuating  old  paying  tellers  in  performing 
out-of-the-way  actions  concerned  him  not 
at  all. 

"  We  all  know,  gentlemen,"  he  resumed  in  a 
248 


Cousin  Lemuel 

tone  of  finality,  "  Mr.  Patterson's —  er — limita 
tions.  We  have  had  many  years  in  which  to 
familiarize  ourselves  with  them.  Now,  if  you 
agree  with  me  that  a  little  new  blood  —  " 

He  stopped  short,  displeased.  Some  one 
had  dared  to  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  !  "  he  ordered. 

He  was  prepared  to  make  short  work  of 
the  intruder.  But  so  great  was  his  surprise 
when,  in  obedience  to  his  summons,  the  door 
opened  and  admitted  a  small  boy,  that  his 
mantle  of  austerity  fell  from  him,  leaving 
nothing  to  distinguish  him  from  eleven  other 
solemn  and  dignified  personages  in  Son's 
eyes. 

"  Please  excuse  me  for  interrupting,"  said 
Son,  trying  to  pick  out  his  man.  "  It's  very 
important." 

"  Let's  have  this  important  business,"  said 
Mr.  Janeway,  with  an  unmistakable  smile. 
"  But  first  —  may  I  ask  how  you  got  in?  " 

So  that  was  the  president,  —  the  man  of 
power.  And  he  wasn't  cross  a  bit ! 

"That  was  easy!"   Son   answered  with  a 
249 


"Son" 

little  laugh,  forgetting  for  an  instant  in  his 
relief  the  importance  of  his  errand, —  "I'm 
so  small.  I  just  slipped  in  behind  the  man 
who  was  closing  up  the  grating.  He  never 
saw  me !  " 

"  Who  told  you  where  to  come?" 

"  I  walked  along  until  I  heard  voices.  Then 
I  knew  the  meeting  must  be  in  here." 

A  gleam  of  interest  showed  on  the  faces  of 
the  seated  ones. 

"  How  did  you  find  out  that  there  was  a 
meeting?"  asked  Mr.  Janeway. 

"  They  told  me  at  your  house,  —  over  the 
telephone.  I  had  to  speak  to  you,  so  I  came 
right  down.  I  knew  the  way,  because  I've 
been  here  before  —  to  see  Cousin  Lemuel." 

Mr.  Janeway  began  to  understand.  "  Oh ! " 
he  said. 

Son's  face  had  suddenly  grown  intent.  No 
more  social  amenities  !  Too  much  time  had 
been  spent  already  in  preliminaries. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  about  him,"  he  said. 

"  Go  on,"  the  president  answered. 

Son  struggled  for  expression.  He  looked 
250 


Cousin  Lemuel 

around,  and  every  face  was  kind.    That  made 
it  easier ! 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Janeway !  "  he  burst  out,  "  if 
Cousin  Lemuel  didn't  have  the  bank  —  I  think 
he'd  die." 

No  one  spoke. 

Son  went  on.  "  He's  told  me  about  it 
often,"  he  said.  "  Every  morning  he  wakes 
early,  and  then  he  lies  with  his  watch  in  his 
hand,  he's  so  afraid  he  might  go  to  sleep  again 
and  be  late.  The  bank's  all  he  has,  except 
Mother,  and  he  only  comes  to  see  her  once 
in  a  while,  —  on  Sundays.  He  has  the  bank 
every  day !  " 

Son  stopped  and  came  up  close  to  Mr. 
Janeway's  chair. 

"You  didn't  know!"  he  said.  "You 
couldn't  —  of  course.  Cousin  Lemuel  never 
told  you.  But  he  thinks  about  the  bank  all 
the  time.  He  can't  even  remember  what  he 
used  to  do  before  he  came  here." 

So  deeply  in  earnest  was  Son  that  he  never 
noticed  Mr.  Janeway's  arm  put  gently  about 
him. 

251 


"Son" 

"  It's  all  a  mistake !  "  he  cried,  his  eyes 
filling.  "Cousin  Lemuel  wouldn't  have  left 
for  the  world.  Only  he  didn't  care  what  he 
did,  he  was  so  unhappy.  It  was  all  because 
he  thought  Mother  didn't  want  him  —  when 
she  really  did.  Nobody  wanted  him,  he 
thought.  Not  Mother  —  or  you  —  or  any 
body  in  the  world.  But  you  do,  don't  you?  " 

Son  was  hanging  on  Mr.  Jane  way's  face 
with  eyes  and  lips  and  all  his  being. 

There  was  a  heavy  silence. 

Then,  "Yes,"  said  Mr.  Janeway,  putting 
his  other  arm  around  Son. 

"  I  knew  it ! "  cried  the  latter,  almost 
delirious  with  joy.  He  quivered  with  the 
excitement  of  reaction  from  his  previous 
uncertainty. 

"  Will  you  go  and  explain  to  Cousin  Lem 
uel  ?  "  said  Mr.  Janeway,  to  steady  him. 

Son's  face  fell. 

"  We've  got  to  find  him  first,"  he  answered. 

"  Isn't  he  found  yet? "  shouted  the  presi 
dent,  springing  up  so  suddenly  that  he  over 
turned  his  chair.  "  Gentlemen,  you  will 
252 


Cousin  Lemuel 

excuse  me.  An  important  matter.  Mr. 
Woodrough  will  take  my  place." 

The  .  vice-president,  to  whom  he  referred, 
had  arisen,  and  was  engaged  in  picking  up 
the  chair  that  had  been  knocked  over.  "  It's 
broken,"  he  muttered.  "  Go  along,  Janeway." 

Mr.  Janeway  went,  holding  Son  by  the 
hand. 

The  whereabouts  of  Cousin  Lemuel  were 
discovered  in  the  end  by  a  simple  expedient 
It  was  Mother  who  thought  of  it,  when  she 
and  Father  drew  up  before  the  hotel,  and 
saw  a  line  of  hacks  standing  near  the  entrance. 

"  Why  not  ask  the  cabmen  ?  "  she  said. 

Poor  Cousin  Lemuel  had  not  used  much 
skill  in  covering  his  tracks.  He  had  only 
wanted  to  get  out  of  the  way,  like  a  hurt 
animal  that  retires  without  outcry  to  nurse 
its  wounds  as  best  it  may.  It  did  not  take 
ten  minutes  to  unearth  the  very  man  who 
had  transferred  him  and  his  trunk  to  their 
new  quarters. 

Cousin  Lemuel  had  just  passed  the  sixth 
253 


"Son" 

longest  day  of  his  life.  Waking  early,  he  had 
taken  his  watch  from  under  his  pillow  by 
force  of  habit,  and  had  held  it  in  his  hand, 
musing.  As  he  observed  for  the  millionth 
time  the  delicately  chiselled  gold  face,  his 
thoughts  went  back  to  that  good  friend  whose 
gift  it  had  been,  Son's  maternal  grandfather, — 
cousin  by  blood,  —  brother  by  a  heart's  need. 
Of  his  relatives  this  one  alone  had  never 
failed  him,  loyal  in  full  and  prosperous  years 
to  the  companion  of  his  youth.  Gone  long 
ago.  What  business  had  that  old  pain  of 
loss  to  crop  up  again  to-day? 

He  put  the  watch  back  and  tried  to  lie 
still  a  few  more  minutes.  Then  he  gave  it 
up,  dressed,  and  went  down  to  breakfast  He 
still  shrank  from  the  new  waiter  who  served 
him  in  the  new  dining-room,  and  ordered  a 
boiled  egg  that  he  might  swallow  it  quickly, 
though  it  was  his  habit  to  eat  two  lamb  chops 
every  morning. 

The  meal  over,  he  took  his  hat  and  went 
out  briskly,  with  every  appearance  of  haste. 
Once  around  the  corner  his  steps  faltered 
254 


Cousin  Lemuel 

and  became  quite  slow  and  feeble,  as  they 
had  every  day  that  week. 

He  was  deadly  tired  when  he  came  in  to 
lunch.  Going  out  again  afterwards  was  not 
to  be  thought  of.  He  went  up  to  his  room, 
where  no  eye  of  stranger  was  upon  him,  and 
sat  down.  Hour  after  hour  he  sat  there, 
neither  moving  nor  thinking.  When  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  he  did  not  rouse 
himself  to  answer. 

"  They've  got  the  wrong  room,"  he  thought 
listlessly.  "  It's  for  some  one  else." 

Then  a  shiver  went  through  his  frame,  and 
he  straightened  in  his  chair. 

"  Cousin  Lemuel ! "  cried  two  or  three 
voices  in  confusion  outside. 

It  was  Mother  who  opened  the  door.  He 
got  up,  took  two  steps  toward  her,  swayed  a 
little,  and  in  the  sudden  dark  that  blotted  her 
out  felt  her  two  arms  about  him. 

"  He'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute,"  he  heard. 
"  Only  a  little  faintness.  Turn  on  the  lights !  " 

Cousin  Lemuel,  coming  back  into  full  con 
sciousness,  kept  his  eyes  closed.  Which  were 
255 


"Son" 

better, — to  feel  her,  still  kneeling  beside  the 
chair  in  which  they  had  placed  him,  or  to 
look  at  her  and  have  her  get  up?  His  de 
cision  was  not  made  when  some  one  spoke. 
Cousin  Lemuel  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  for 
the  first  time  the  rest  of  the  group,  —  Father, 
Mr.  Janeway,  and  Son,  the  two  latter  having 
gone  directly  from  the  bank  to  the  old  hotel, 
where  they  had  encountered  the  others. 

"  The  officers  of  the  bank  have  commis 
sioned  me  to  decline  your  resignation,"  said 
Mr.  Janeway. 

"  Mother  didn't  see  you  in  the  hall !  "  cried 
Son. 

Cousin  Lemuel  patted  Mother's  head. 
Since  she  was  still  kneeling  beside  him,  what 
matter  whether  she  had  seen  him  or  not? 

"  Let    us    take    you    home   to   dinner ! " 
begged  Father. 

Cousin  Lemuel  shook  his  head.  He  was 
very  tired. 

"  I'll  come  on  Sunday,"  he  said. 

Then  he  arose,  took  off  his  watch,  leaving 
the   useless   chain   dangling,   and   with   old- 
256 


Cousin  Lemuel 

fashioned  formality  put  the  watch  into  Son's 
hand. 

"  Oh,  no !  No  !  "  cried  everybody. 

But  Cousin  Lemuel  glowed.  "  I've  always 
intended  it  for  him,"  he  said.  And  he  looked 
so  happy  as  he  stood  there,  with  pink  in  his 
cheeks  and  blue  in  his  eyes,  that  they  dared 
protest  no  more. 

"Let's  go,"  whispered  Mother.  "He's 
had  excitement  enough." 

"  We'll  see  you  at  the  bank  on  Monday. 
Good-bye  !  "  said  Mr.  Janeway. 

"  Good-bye !  "  echoed  Father  and  Son. 

Mother,  who  had  suggested  going,  lingered. 
"  Good-bye,  dear !  "  she  said. 

"  Good-bye,"  whispered  Cousin  Lemuel. 
"  Good-bye,  my  little  girl ! " 


257 


THE   REFLEX 


THE    REFLEX 


OON  passed  it  every  morning  on  his  way 
to  school.  It  was  an  ugly  red  brick  build 
ing,  and  any  one  could  have  told  that  it  had 
been  erected  with  charitable  intent.  It  had 
all  the  indications.  Son  had  often  seen  some 
shy  little  old  head  appear  at  one  of  the  win 
dows,  to  be  withdrawn  at  the  next  instant 

"Why  don't  they  build  a  lot  of  little 
houses  for  them?"  he  thought  in  happy 
ignorance  of  the  value  of  real  property  in  the 
City  of  New  York.  "  White  wooden  ones, 
with  green  blinds  ? "  And  he  saw  in  his 
mind  innumerable  tiny  kitchens,  smelt  savory 
smells  from  imaginary  lacquered  stoves,  and 
pictured  in  each  toy  house  an  owner,  impor 
tant,  happy,  holding  in  black  bombazine  un 
disputed  sway  over  her  own  hearth.  "  That 
is  the  way  I  should  do  it !  "  thought  Son. 

He  liked  hospitals:  it  seemed  right  that 
261 


"Son" 

sick  people  should  be  cared  for  in  long  rows 
of  white  cots,  to  be  discharged  when  cured. 
But  from  this  great,  solid  building  there  was 
no  discharge,  and  for  the  ailment  which  had 
brought  each  inmate  there,  —  age,  —  there 
was  no  cure.  Potential  grandmothers  all,  — 
checked  and  pigeon-holed.  Son's  soul  re 
belled.  What  a  waste ! 

Son  did  not  possess  a  grandmother  himself. 
Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  in  these  modern 
days,  —  for,  who  knows?  —  had  he  owned 
one  she  might  not  have  had  little  gray  curls 
at  all,  but  a  coiffure  in  the  latest  fashion,  and 
clothes  to  match.  This  would  have  been 
fatal,  for  somewhere  in  the  recesses  of  his 
mind  was  a  very  exact  idea  of  what  an  old 
lady  should  be.  Toward  this  old  lady  of  his 
dreams  he  had  a  feeling,  not  quite  the  same 
as  his  love  for  Baby,  nor  yet  like  his  tender 
ness  for  Fulsy,  —  Fulsy,  his  own  puppy, 
whom  he  had  given  to  Nils'  boy  Petersen, 
and  whom  he  still  longed  for  at  night  with 
empty  arms, —  but  similar  to  both.  So  he 
was  not  at  all  surprised,  in  looking  up  one 
262 


The  Reflex 

day  as  he  passed  by,  to  see  her  peeping  out. 
There  she  was  !  Black  dress,  gray  curls,  and 
all.  And  he  took  off  his  cap  and  waved  it  at 
her  with  a  bright  smile  of  recognition. 

"Mais,  quoi  done?"  cried  Mathilde,  grab 
bing  him  by  the  shoulder  and  hurrying  him 
along. 

Son  did  not  often  stop  to  analyze  Mathilde. 
He  accepted  her  as  he  did  the  Indian  meal 
mush  which  was  sometimes  served  to  him  for 
breakfast.  He  did  not  fancy  it,  but  he  ate 
it  because  of  a  tradition  in  his  family  which 
proclaimed  it  superior  in  sterling  qualities  to 
pleasanter  foods.  This  time  he  thought  her 
over,  and  concluded  that  her  interference  had 
sprung,  not  from  any  objection  to  the  old 
ladies,  —  to  whom  she  would  joyfully  have 
rushed  with  arms  full  of  packages  of  any  size, 
had  such  been  entrusted  to  her  for  them,  — 
but  from  an  ineradicable  conventionality  of 
temperament.  She  never  allowed  Son  to 
make  acquaintances.  How,  then,  enlarge 
his  horizon?  That  night  he  asked  Mother 
whether  he  might  not  be  permitted  in  future 
263 


"Son" 

to  go  to  school  alone.  It  was  not  his  fault 
that  his  motives  were  misinterpreted. 

"  He's  getting  manly  at  last !  "  cried  Father 
in  triumph,  when  the  request  was  repeated  to 
him  by  Mother  during  the  evening. 

"  But  the  automobiles  —  " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  Father  interrupted.  "  He 
can  take  care  of  himself." 

"  He's  so  little—  " 

"  Didn't  want  to  be  seen  with  a  nurse ! 
Quite  right,  too  !  "  Father  said,  not  listening. 
And  in  this  fashion  he  disposed  of  all  further 
arguments. 

Son  started  off  very  happily  next  day,  his 
books  under  his  arm,  while  Mathilde  watched 
him  from  a  third  floor  window. 

"  Not'in'  more  for  me  to  do  in  dis  house," 
she  grumbled  to  the  housemaid.  Then  she 
took  up  the  jacket  he  had  worn  last  night 
from  the  hanger,  where  it  had  waited  with 
the  sleeves  full  of  creases  made  by  his  arms, 
and  began  to  brush  it  energetically. 

That  day  Son  did  not  see  his  old  lady,  but 
the  following  morning  she  was  there,  leaning 
264 


The  Reflex 

out  of  an  upper  windowwith  a  green  flower-pot 
in  her  hand.  Son  stood  quietly  waiting  until 
she  had  watered  the  whole  row  of  pink  tulips 
that  lifted  their  heads  with  such  delicate  stiff 
ness,  making  the  only  spot  of  color  on  the 
dreary  face  of  the  "  home."  When  the  last 
drop  had  been  sucked  into  her  little  bit  of 
brown  earth,  she  looked  down,  saw  him,  and 
leaned  out  perilously  far,  waving  to  him  as 
quickly  as  though  she  had  been  another  boy. 

After  he  had  gone  on  she  continued  to 
stand  there,  though  she  knew  he  was  caught 
behind  some  sternly  shut  door,  where  people 
were  trying  to  put  into  his  head  a  thing  that 
they  called  knowledge.  He  would  not  come 
back  for  hours. 

By  and  by  the  dinner  bell  rang.  She  went 
down  with  the  others,  and  left  as  soon  as  it 
was  over.  There  he  was  again  !  Waving  his 
cap  !  Laughing !  Running  by. 

Had  she   really  waited  all  that  time  with 

the  single  interruption  of  the  mid-day  meal, 

hovering  between  the  window  and  her  chair? 

Well,  it  didn't  matter,  after  all.     For  she  had 

265 


"Son" 

watered  her  flowers,  and,  apart  from  eating, 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

After  that  Son  knew  that  as  regularly  as 
he  got  up,  as  regularly  as  he  ate  his  break 
fast  and  started  out,  he  should  see  her, — 
going  and  coming. 

And  the  old  lady,  nestling  about  in  the 
early  morning  on  the  coarse  clean  pillow  case 
which  was  marked  in  ink  in  one  corner,  "  Un- 
sectarian  Home,  No.  568,"  —  at  that  pleasant 
moment  which  comes  between  sleeping  and 
waking,  would  feel  that  something  delightful 
was  about  to  happen  —  Christmas,  or  some 
thing  of  the  sort. 

Sunday,  which  had  been  for  years  an  event 
ful  day  to  her,  and  the  occasion  of  much  in 
nocent  prinking  before  she  started  out,  ivory 
prayer-book  in  hand,  for  church,  was  now 
a  weariness.  That  and  Saturday.  For  on 
those  days  he  did  not  come.  She  had  for 
gotten  holidays. 

There  was  one  holiday  to  which  she  looked 
forward  from  year  to  year  with  a  stirring  of 
the  pulses  at  the  mere  thought  of  it.  On 
266 


The  Reflex 

that  day  she  always  got  out  a  little  silk  flag 
that  she  numbered  among  the  dearest  of  her 
possessions,  and  hung  it  out  of  the  window, 
where  above  the  row  of  tulips  it  fluttered 
valiantly  in  the  breeze, — Lincoln's  birthday. 

This  time  she  felt  like  a  traitor  to  her  dear 
hero,  that  on  his  day,  instead  of  soaring,  her 
heart  sank.  But  she  fastened  her  flag  in  its 
place,  thinking  all  the  while,  "  He's  not  com 
ing.  He  won't  come  to-day." 

And  then  he  did  come,  after  all,  —  came 
with  his  school  books  under  his  arm,  and  his 
cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  at  an  angle 
never  tolerated  by  Mathilde.  But  she  was 
away  on  an  unheard-of  holiday  —  gone  to 
meet  at  the  dock  a  sister  newly  arrived  — 
and  Father  and  Mother  were  away  too,  on  a 
motoring  trip.  Son,  who  was  often  absent- 
minded,  had  clean  forgotten  what  day  it  was. 
He  never  remembered  it  until  he  looked  up 
and  saw  the  old  lady  standing  listlessly  be 
side  the  stars  and  stripes.  He  laughed 
outright.  "  How  funny !  "  he  said  aloud. 
"  Why,  there  isn't  any  school  to-day !  "  Then 
267 


"Son" 

his  eyes  met  those  of  his  friend,  shining  down 
at  him. 

"There  isn't  any  school  to-day!"  he 
shouted,  making  a  trumpet  of  his  hollowed 
hands. 

She  beckoned,  and  quick  as  thought  Son 
had  run  up  the  front  steps.  He  was  just  going 
to  ring  the  bell  when  the  door  was  opened. 
"How  did  she  ever  get  here  so  soon?" 
thought  Son.  "  But  she  can  move  fast  — 
she's  not  so  much  bigger  than  me." 

"  How  do  you  do  ? "  he  said  politely,  re 
moving  the  rakish  cap. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came,  after  all!"  she 
answered  with  a  little  sigh  of  pleasure.  "  Will 
you  come  up  to  my  room  ?  " 

Hand  in  hand  they  trotted  up  the  uncar- 
peted  stairs.,  —  she  softly,  he  with  a  creditable 
clattering  of  little  stout  shoes. 

"  Whew !  "  he  said.  "  Perhaps  they  won't 
like  me  to  make  such  a  noise ! " 

But  she  assured  him  that  "  they  "  would. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  flight  the  two 
stopped,  and  turning  to  the  right  came  to 
268 


The  Reflex 

one  of  many  wooden  doors  just  alike.     "  No. 
301  "  was  painted  on  it  in  black  letters. 

"  That's  my  house-number !  "  she  said,  as 
she  opened  the  door. 

There  was  one  window,  through  which  the 
sun  was  coming  in.  Son  caught  the  pink 
glow  of  the  tulips  on  the  sill. 

"  I'm  glad  the  sun's  shining!  "  he  consoled 
himself,  looking  about  the  bare  space.  A 
little  white  iron  bedstead  in  one  corner,  a 
bureau  in  another.  A  mission  table  without 
a  cloth  occupied  the  centre  of  the  room,  and 
there  were  two  chairs  and  a  footstool.  Under 
the  window  was  a  worn  black  leather  trunk. 
That  was  all.  No, — not  quite  all.  On  the 
whitewashed  walls  were  hanging,  not  pic 
tures,  but  bits  of  handwriting  in  neat  oak 
frames. 

Son's   old   lady  followed  the  direction   of 
his  eyes. 

"  Can  you  read  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied. 

She  took  him  to  a  chair  under  one  of  the 
frames,  held  his  hand  while  he  climbed  up, 
269 


"Son" 

and  pointed  with  a  tapering  forefinger  at  the 
manuscript  displayed. 

"ALBANY,  Feb.  18, 1861. 
DEAR  ANN, — 

Having  a  moment's  leisure  at  this  locality 
I  write  to  you.  Old  Abe  has  just  now  been  received 
here.  His  journey  to  the  Capital  is  to  be  a  success. 
The  people  are  rising  en  masse  —  the  further  he  goes 
the  greater  will  be  the  numbers.  At  this  place  there 
were  at  least  fifteen  thousand  in  the  crowd.  The  park 
at  the  Capital  here  was  every  inch  of  it  packed,  and 
all  the  trees  were  filled  with  living  beings.  If  you 
have  not  seen  Lincoln  you  will  be  disappointed  on 
seeing  him.  With  his  present  heavy  beard  he  is 
really  a  noble-looking  man.  His  likenesses  are  de 
cidedly  a  mistake  —  " 

"  That's  true !  "  interrupted  the  old  lady 
softly. 

Son  turned,  and  with  both  hands  on  the 
rim  of  the  chair  looked  down  on  her  absorbed, 
upturned  face. 

"Did you  ever  see  him?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,    after  I  had    received   that   letter  I 
started  at  once  for  Washington,  and  saw  him 
for  myself  when  he  arrived. " 
270 


The  Reflex 

"  Tell  me  about  the  war !  "  pleaded  Son, 
jumping  down. 

"  It's  a  long  story,"  she  warned. 

"  Oh,  good  !  "  he  cried  clapping  his  hands. 
"Please  begin.  But  first  —  where's  your 
knitting?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  old  ladies  have  to 
knit?"  she  said  happily,  going  over  to  the 
bureau  and  getting  it  out  of  the  upper  drawer. 
"  They  always  do,  you  know !  " 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "What  beautiful 
stockings!  Who  are  they  for ?" 

"  For  soldiers,"  said  the  old  lady,  dropping 
instantly  her  bantering  tone  and  lowering  her 
voice. 

"  Soldiers  in  barracks?  " 

"  No,  soldiers  at  war,"  she  replied. 

"But  we're  not  having  war  in  this  coun 
try  !  "  he  cried,  wondering. 

"This  is  not  the  only  country,"  she  re 
proved  him  gently.  "  Somewhere  —  who 
knows  —  they  may  be  needed  when  they 
are  finished." 

Son  watched  her,  awed,  for  her  breath 
271 


"Son" 

came  quickly,  and  her  eyes  were  alight  with 
what  he  knew  to  be  Mother-love  for  all  the 
soldiers  in  the  whole  world. 

She  settled  herself  in  the  rocking-chair 
and  offered  him  the  footstool,  but  he  pushed 
it  under  her  feet  and  sat  down  on  the  floor, 
clasping  his  drawn-up  knees  with  his  hands 
and  leaning  his  chin  on  them. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  pleaded. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  she  began  thought 
fully,  "  there  lived  a  girl.  She  was  almost 
grown  up,  you  know,  but  she  was  little." 

"Where  did  she  live?"  said  Son,  all  ex 
pectation. 

"  She  lived  in  a  white  house,"  said  the  old 
lady,  "  with  green  blinds." 

"  Just  the  kind  I  love  !  "  cried  Son  ecstati 
cally.  "  With  roses.  There  were  roses  ?  "  he 
added  with  some  anxiety. 

"  Crimson  ramblers,"  said  the  old  lady 
promptly. 

Son  unclasped  his  knees  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction.  "  Go  on,  please,"  he  said. 

"  She  lived  with  her  aunt,"  his  friend  con- 
272 


The  Reflex 

tinued.  "  A  quiet,  kind  aunt,  who  had  never 
been  out  of  her  native  village.  The  girl  liked 
school.  After  the  primary  came  the  high 
school,  and  she  graduated  with  honors.  And 
the  minister  of  her  church,  who  had  lived  in 
cities,  told  her  what  books  to  get  from  the 
library.  She  read  a  great  deal,  —  mostly 
history,  and  the  biographies  of  great  men. 
Then  came  a  rather  dreary  time.  Her  school 
days  were  over,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  read 
any  more  of  the  events  in  busy  lives.  She 
used  to  lean  out  of  her  little  window  in  the 
gray  of  morning,  when  the  air  was  still  and 
heavy  with  the  sweet  garden  odors  below, 
and  wish  that  something  would  stir. 

" '  Things  may  happen  to  other  people,' 
her  heart  would  cry  out,  '  but  not  to 
me ! ' " 

"Did  anything?"  asked  Son. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  lady  joyously.  "  Into 
this  Sabbath  quiet  came  —  a  man." 

"What  kind  of  a  man?" 

"  Just  a  man  !  A  great,  big  young  man,  who 
could  lift  the  girl  with  one  hand  and  put  her 
273 


"Son" 

over  the  fences  when  they  were  walking  to 
gether  through  the  fields.  All  the  things 
that  the  girl  had  long  since  forgotten  to 
notice  gave  him  the  keenest  pleasure.  The 
tolling  bell  on  the  old  white  church,  the  gay 
colors  of  the  garden  flowers,  the  smell  of  hay, 
and  the  singing  of  birds  at  sunrise.  She 
learned  to  see  them  all  with  his  eyes. 

"  But  most  of  all  he  loved  the  elms.  By 
day,  when  the  sun  cast  late  afternoon  shadows 
over  them,  or  at  night,  when  they  stood,  silent 
sentinels  under  a  round  yellow  moon,  while 
the  glistening  mist  rose  in  great  clouds  over 
the  marshes." 

"Then  what  happened?"  said  Son. 

"  Well,  one  day  the  man  took  the  girl's 
hand  and  led  her  up  the  straight  aisle  of  the 
church,  where  the  minister  who  had  directed 
her  reading  married  them,  with  the  aunt  and 
all  her  school  friends  looking  on  from  the 
high-backed  pews. 

"  That  very  day  he  took  her  away,  —  and, 
oh,  she  was  glad  to  go !  But  through  the 
anxious  days  that  followed,  he  looked  back 
274 


The  Reflex 

to  that  sleepy  little  town  as  to  an  earthly 
paradise." 

The  old  lady  paused,  and  Son  did  not  in 
terrupt  her  thoughts. 

"The  war  broke  out  almost  at  once,"  she 
resumed  presently.  "  And  of  course  the  man 
volunteered."  She  got  up  and  began  fum 
bling  over  papers  in  the  trunk.  "  This  will  tell 
you  the  beginning  of  it,"  she  said,  coming 
back  with  a  folded  sheet  in  her  hand.  And 
she  began  to  read  : 

"  Head  Quarters,  First  Division. 

Gen.  Williams  (late  Banks)  Corps. 
MARYLAND  HEIGHTS,   September  24th,  1862* 

GEN.  A.  A.  WILLIAMS, 

Commanding  Corps. 
SIR,— 

In  conformity  with  orders,  emanating  from 
Headquarters  of  the  Corps,  I  have  the  honor  to  re 
port  upon  the  part  taken  by  my  Brigade,  the  Third, 
of  the  First  Division  of  your  Corps,  in  the  recent 
battle  of  Antietam,  near  Sharpsburg,  on  the  i;th 
instant. 

The  enemy,  routed  at  passes  of  the  South  Moun 
tain  on  the  I4th,  were  rapidly  pursued  and  brought  to 
a  stand,   near   Sharpsburg,  on  the   westerly  side  of 
Antietam  Creek,  on  the  i6th  instant  —  " 
275 


"Son" 

"  I'd  rather  have  you  tell  it !  "  said  Son. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  a  little  young  for  the 
official  reports,"  the  old  lady  replied.  "  But 
you  look  as  though  you  could  understand 
anything. 

"  All  that  day  the  Corps  had  nothing  to  do. 
So  they  spent  it — nearly  all  of  them  —  in 
writing  letters.  One  letter  came  —  long  after 
—  to  a  wife." 

"What  did  it  say?  "  asked  Son. 

"Pages  and  pages  of — things  that  you 
wouldn't  understand,"  she  replied.  "But  it 
ended  with  this: 

"'If  I  shouldn't  come  back,  I'd  like  to  think  of 
you  in  their  keeping — the  big  fellows  that  listened  to 
all  I  whispered  to  you  that  night.'  " 

"  The  elms ! "  Son  said. 

"There's  a  lot  more  in  the  report,"  said 
the  old  lady.  "  About  how  they  were  awak 
ened  from  a  brief  sleep  by  a  sharp  firing  of 
musketry  —  how  General  Hooker  was  sorely 
pressed,  and  General  Gordon  brought  his 
Brigade  to  his  support —  how  he  moved  his 
ployed  masses  at  double  quick  —  " 
276 


The  Reflex 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Son,  "  if  I  could  only  have 
been  there  !  It  doesn't  sound  like  that  in  my 
'  Children's  Stories  in  American  History ' ! 
Mother  read  me  something  out  of  the  Bible 
that  sounded  like  it.  What  was  it  now?  Oh, 
yes,  I  know,  '  The  thunder  of  the  Captains, 
and  the  shouting.'  " 

Son  looked  up,  but  the  old  lady  did  not  go 
on.  He  shuffled  his  feet,  and  she  looked 
down  at  him  smiling. 

"  May  I  read  a  little  now  ? "  she  asked. 
"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  tell  this  part." 

She  turned  several  pages,  and  the  leaves 
crackled. 

"  These  regiments,"  she  read,  "  were  received  with 
a  galling  fire,  which  they  sustained  and  returned  for  a 
brief  period,  then  fell  back  upon  their  supports.  So 
strong  was  the  enemy  that  an  addition  of  any  force 
I  could  command  would  only  have  caused  further 
sacrifice  without  gain.  The  loss  in  the  2nd  Mass, 
was  severe.  Here  fell  mortally  wounded  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  Winfield  Graham  of  this  Regiment  bravely 
fighting  for  his  country. 

"An  official  paper  is  not  the  place  to  express  the 
sadness  the  death  of  this  gallant  officer  brings  to  the 
Regiment  in  which  his  presence  was  so  much  felt,  as 
2/7 


"Son" 

well  as  to  many  friends   serving  in  the  army,  to 
whom  —  " 

"  But  no  one  must  be  killed  now  ! "  inter 
rupted  Son,  his  eyes  filling.  "Why,  it's 
only  the  beginning  of  the  story !  " 

The  old  lady  looked  down  into  his  disap 
pointed  face,  and  her  smile  was  the  sweetest 
he  had  ever  seen. 

"  It's  the  end  of  my  story,"  she  said. 

Son  went  home,  and  all  that  day  forgot  to 
do  everything  that  was  expected  of  him,  for 
he  smelled  the  battle  afar  off.  In  the  after 
noon  the  streets  were  gay  with  flags.  He 
longed  passionately  to  do  some  deed  of  hero 
ism,  —  to  sacrifice  his  life,  if  need  be.  Mother 
and  Father  came  home  toward  night,  and 
Son  went  down  to  say  his  prayers.  Instead 
of  mumbling  them  off  as  usual,  with  the 
pleasant  feeling  that  the  doing  of  it  was  sure 
to  rob  the  night  of  cares,  he  faltered  in  the 
middle  and  stopped. 

"What's  the  matter,  Son?"  said  Mother, 
greatly  surprised,  for  she  knew  him  to  be  a 
278 


The  Reflex 

happy  soul,  who  generally  took  things  as  they 
came. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,"  he  said. 

"That  can't  be  it,"  said  Mother  gently. 
"  You  always  go  to  bed  at  this  time.  I  know 
you  wouldn't  make  a  fuss  about  such  a  thing 
as  that." 

Then  he  lifted  to  her  a  face  so  old  and  full 
of  misery  that  it  shook  her  to  the  depths  of 
her  heart,  —  as  nothing  in  her  comfortable 
life  ever  shook  her. 

"  I  haven't  accomplished  anything  all  day," 
he  said.  "  If  I've  got  to  live  like  that,  I  don't 
want  to  live. " 

Then  Mother  took  both  his  hands,  hoping 
humbly  that  she  might  be  able  to  follow 
where  led  this  little  child  of  hers,  and  tried 
to  explain  to  him  that  it  could  not  be  ex 
pected  of  a  little  boy  to  do  great  things  every 
day.  So  the  lines  smoothed  themselves  out 
of  his  face,  for  at  eight  it  is  easy  to  forget 
your  wasted  life  in  your  Mother's  arms. 

Father  had  gone  out  to  dinner,  and  Mother 
and  Son  sat  for  a  long  time  together  on  the. 
279 


"Son" 

library  sofa.  In  their  companionship  that 
night  there  was  an  intensity  that  did  not  be 
long  to  the  life  of  every  day  — "  though  it 
would,"  her  heart  cried  out  in  bitter  self- 
reproach,  "  if  I  didn't  let  a  host  of  things 
come  between ! " 

"Whatever  happens,"  said  Son  slowly, 
"  when  I'm  grown  up,  —  whatever  I  do,  —  it 
will  all  come  back  to  this." 

"  How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mother. 

"Back  to  this,"  he  repeated.  "To  all 
these  books  —  with  stories  in  them  that  hap 
pened  long  ago  —  and  the  lamp  —  and  to 
you  and  me  sitting  here  together." 

Mother  looked  at  him,  in  the  serge  jacket 
and  white  collar  which  had  been  substituted 
this  winter  for  sailor  suits,  his  head  all  the 
more  fine  and  delicate  for  the  rougher  clothes; 
his  whole  body  trembling  with  what  he  felt, 
while  he  thus  projected  himself  into  the  fu 
ture.  And  she  determined  to  hold  the  pic 
ture  fast.  Before  he  went  to  bed  he  told 
her  all  about  his  old  lady,  and  obtained  her 
permission  to  ask  her  to  the  house. 
280 


The  Reflex 

Son's  old  lady  was  on  her  knees  before  the 
leather  trunk.  The  row  of  tulips  drooped  a 
little,  for  she  had  forgotten  to  water  them 
that  day.  She  shoved  the  papers  one  side,  — 
copies  of  reports  and  all,  —  and  with  quick 
motions  threw  out  one  after  another  various 
articles  of  clothing,  throwing  over  one  arm 
what  she  needed,  and  dropping  the  rest  un 
heeded  on  the  floor. 

Had  any  of  her  fellow  inmates  of  the  Home 
come  in  just  then,  the  little  room,  once  so 
drearily  in  order,  would  have  presented  to 
their  eyes  quite  a  festive  appearance  of  con 
fusion.  But  none  came.  They  did  not  break 
in  upon  her  very  often,  for  she  did  not  suffer 
from  rheumatism,  nor  did  she  have  any  fault 
to  find  with  the  regime  of  the  institution  or 
with  the  food.  There  were  certain  rumors 
about  her.  It  was  whispered  that  she  had 
refused  a  pension  from  the  War  Department, 
saying  that  her  husband's  services  to  his 
country  had  been  freely  given,  and  that  his 
widow  declined  to  accept  pay  for  them.  But 
that  was  long  ago,  when  she  was  young  and 
281 


"Son" 

could  support  herself  by  teaching.  If  she 
had  foreseen  that  she  must  end  her  days 
as  a  recipient  of  charity,  would  her  answer 
have  been  the  same?  Some  shook  their 
heads,  others  kept  silence,  but  all  in  their 
inner  consciousness  felt  pretty  sure  that  it 
would. 

The  old  lady,  having  laid  the  other  articles 
on  a  chair,  pulled  out  very  carefully  from  the 
bottom  of  the  trunk  the  package  she  had 
been  seeking.  It  was  wrapped  in  a  camel's- 
hair  shawl  and  pinned  with  many  pins.  She 
took  it  in  her  arms  as  if  it  had  been  a  baby, 
and  carried  it  to  the  bed.  When  she  had 
taken  it  out,  she  stood  back  and  looked  at  it. 
It  was  a  dress  of  rich  black  silk,  and  she  had 
not  had  it  on  for  fifteen  years. 

She  hurried  with  her  dressing,  standing 
before  the  mirror  to  comb  out  the  ringlets 
that  kinked  all  the  more  for  the  dampness  of 
the  day.  "  It  always  did  curl,"  she  said  to 
herself.  Then  she  put  on  the  gown,  which 
rustled  not  at  all  when  she  moved,  so  heavy 
and  soft  were  the  folds  of  it,  and  fastened  the 
282 


The  Reflex 

real  lace  at  her  throat  with  her  best  cameo 
pin.  Her  cap  was  lace,  too,  and  had  a  violet 
ribbon  on  it.  She  wrapped  her  head,  curls 
and  all,  in  a  solemn  black  silk  scarf,  from 
which  her  sweet  face  and  live  eyes  looked 
out  eagerly.  She  drew  on  her  mitts,  and 
threw  a  pelisse  over  her  shoulders.  Then 
she  was  ready,  and  closing  the  door  softly, 
she  ran  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
street,  where  she  tried  not  to  walk  too  fast 

To  Son,  no  less  than  to  her,  this  day  had 
been  one  of  anticipation. 

"Why  don't  you  wait  until  to-morrow?" 
Father  and  Mother  had  said.  "  We  won't 
be  in  to-night  until  you  have  finished 
supper." 

Son  had  not  thought  it  polite  to  explain 
to  them  that  their  presence  was  not  neces 
sary  to  his  party.  He  had  begun  his  prepa 
rations  immediately  after  lunch. 

"  You  had  better  have  supper  in  the  dining- 
room,"  the  parlor  maid  had  suggested,  quite 
willing  to  deck  out  the  table  with  silver  and 
candles  for  his  pleasure. 
283 


"Son" 

"  Oh,  no ! "  Son  had  answered,  "  we're 
going  to  have  it  in  the  nursery." 

"  But  there's  nothing  up  there  but  a  little 
table  and  chairs  !  " 

"  That  doesn't  matter !  "  he  had  replied  in 
glee.  "  They're  big  enough  for  her.  You'll 
see ! " 

Mathilde  had  stood  with  unusual  patience 
for  a  long  time  at  the  florist's  around  the 
corner,  waiting  for  Son  to  make  up  his  mind 
on  what  flowers  to  spend  his  last  week's  al 
lowance  of  twenty-five  cents.  Finally  he  had 
decided  on  a  tea  rose.  "  That  looks  like  her," 
he  had  said. 

"You  can  have  two  for  a  quarter,"  the 
florist  had  remarked,  hardly  knowing  why, 
for  he  was  not  given  to  generosity.  And 
when  Son  had  explained  that  he  did  not 
want  two,  the  man  had  given  him  back  fifteen 
cents. 

Now  the  moment  had  come.  There  she 
was !  —  On  the  tick  of  the  clock. 

"  Come  up  to  the  nursery,"  said  Son. 

The  nursery  was  a  big  room  with  three 
284 


The  Reflex 

windows,  containing  toys  both  masculine  and 
feminine  of  every  sort.  On  one  side  was  a 
much  kicked  sofa  upholstered  in  green  denim, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a  white  painted 
table  covered  with  a  white  cloth  and  set 
for  three.  Around  the  room  ran  a  frieze  of 
animals  marching  in  solemn  procession.  Son 
pulled  out  one  of  the  little  white  chairs  as  he 
had  seen  Father  do  for  Mother,  and  the  old 
lady  made  him  a  formal  courtesy  before  she  sat 
down,  after  which  he  pinned  on  the  rose. 
Then  in  stormed  Baby,  and  all  ceremony 
was  at  an  end. 

"  But,  Baby,"  said  Son,  in  that  gentle  tone 
of  ineffective  protest  used  habitually  by 
elderly  female  relatives,  "  people  don't  drum 
on  the  table  with  spoons  at  parties." 

"  Baby  does,"  was  all  the  satisfaction  he 
got. 

When  he  found  that  his  visitor  did  not 
mind  at  all,  —  appeared  to  enjoy  the  accom 
paniment,  in  fact,— he  began  to  breathe  freely. 
And  as  the  meal  progressed  it  became  mirth 
ful,  almost  hilarious.  So  it  seemed  per- 
285 


"Son" 

fectly  natural  to  Son  to  ask,  when  the  table 
had  been  cleared  away  and  Mathilde  had 
gone  down  to  the  pantry  with  dishes, — 

"What  shall  we  play?" 

The  old  lady's  eyes,  looking  about  for 
ideas,  met  the  frieze  and  were  arrested  by 
the  leopard's  spots. 

"Animals,"  she  suggested. 

"  I'll  be  a  bear !  "  shouted  Son.  "  What 
shall  Baby  be?" 

"A  lion,"  said  the  old  lady.  "A  little 
furry  one,  that  never  eats  anybody." 

But  Baby  said  she  wanted  to  be  a  zebra. 

"  It's  because  we  can't  have  horses  in  this 
game,  for  they're  not  wild,"  explained  the 
bear.  "  She's  crazy  about  horses,  and  she 
thinks  zebras  are  the  nearest." 

"  Then  I'll  be  the  lion,"  said  the  old  lady, 
getting  down  on  all  fours  and  growling 
dreadfully. 

Father   and    Mother,   climbing   the   stairs 

heard  unusual  noises.     Above  all  the  din  — 

could  it  be?  —  they  looked  at  one  another. 

Yes,  it  surely  was   the   voice  of  their  Son ! 

286 


The  Reflex 

When  they  opened  the  door,  the  old  lady 
arose  at  once,  smoothed  out  the  folds  of 
her  dress,  and  looked  up  at  them  without 
embarrassment. 

"  We  were  just  playing  animals,"  she  said. 

Father  and  Mother  thought  that  they  had 
never  seen  so  charming  a  picture.  The  color 
in  her  cheeks  was  that  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  rose,  —  the  tint  of  skin  and  daintily  mod 
elled  throat,  framed  in  old  lace,  that  of  its 
outer  petals.  Face,  form,  and  hair,  —  all  old, 
and  beautiful  not  in  spite  of  this,  but  because 
of  it.  All  old  but  the  eyes.  Those  were 
ever  young,  for  back  of  them  burned  the  fire 
of  an  indomitable  spirit.  A  daguerreotype 
come  to  life. 

"  My  Son  tells  me  you  are  interested  in  the 
war,"  said  Father.  "  If  you  wouldn't  mind 
coming  down  to  the  library,  I'd  like  to  show 
you  some  of  my  letters." 

The  four  went  down  together,  and  Father 
began  searching  in  one  of  the  table  drawers. 
"  Here's  one !  "  he  said,  and  began  to 
read: 

287 


"Son" 

"  WJLLARD'S  HOTEL, 
September  3rd,  1863. 

DEAR  SIR,  — 

Brigadier  General  Gordon  has  come  in  entirely 
worn  out,  and  he  has  not  a  staff  officer  left.     I  am 
quite  willing  to  volunteer,  and  if  I  can  receive  a  staff 
appointment  will  join  him  at  once. 
Yours  truly, 

CHARLES  WARREN. 

It  will  be  of  great  service  to  me  if  the  above 

arrangement  can  be  made. 

GEO.  H.  GORDON, 

Brig.  General,  U.  Sts." 

"That  was  grandfather,"  he  explained, 
looking  at  Son. 

The  old  lady  was  looking  at  him  too. 
"  His  grandfather !  "  she  said  softly.  "  It 
was  the  Brigade  to  which  my  husband's  regi 
ment  belonged." 

"Your  husband  !  "  cried  Father.  "  Was 
your  husband  an  officer?  I  don't  even  know 
the  name  yet !  " 

"  Winfield  Graham,"  she  said. 

"That's  an  honored  name  to  every  one," 
said  Father  quickly. 

Son's  eyes  grew  big.  That  was  the  name 
288 


The  Reflex 

of  the  officer  in  the  story.  The  one  who  had 
been  killed  at  Antietam.  The  soldier  who 
had  written  the  letter  home.  The  man  who 
had  married  the  girl  of  the  white  house  and 
the  roses. 

"  Why,  it  was  you  all  the  time !  "  he  said. 

She  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  away  his 
tears.  "  I  won't  tell  you  any  more  like  that," 
she  comforted  him.  "  You  see,  when  I 
told  it  to  you  I  thought  I  didn't  know 
any  other.  I  can  tell  you  a  much  better 
one  now." 

Son's  drooping  spirits  rose. 

"What  about?"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  about  a  fairy,"  she  answered. 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"  It  was  a  boy  fairy.  He  was  very  power 
ful.  And  one  day  when  he  was  floating 
through  the  air,  looking  about  all  the  time  to 
see  what  good  he  could  do  —  " 

"  What  happened?  "  said  Son. 

"  He  came  to  a  tree  that  had  been  touched 
by  frost  when  it  was  young.  It  was  dead. 
And  the  boy  fairy  waved  his  wand  over  it  —  " 
289 


"Son" 

"Yes?"  queried  Son. 

"  And  the  sap  began  to  flow,  and  the  little 
leaves  to  sprout,  —  and  —  it  had  come  to  life 
again !  "  she  cried,  giving  him  a  great  big 
hug. 


THE  END 


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